


Crossing of the Rubicon

by blackidyll



Series: Traceability [6]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Cyberwarfare, Double Agents, Interdepartmental Politics, M/M, Mission Fic, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-12 07:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 43,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4470299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackidyll/pseuds/blackidyll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“That’s vindictive of you,” C says. “Once, you could have been in Jacobs’s position.”</p><p>“And having an intelligence agency crash into one's life – that’s exactly what happened to me, isn’t it,” Q says sharply, and then slaps his open palm against his forehead. His damn broken filters again. “My apologies. It’s different coming from this side of the equation now.” </p><p>“You’re on edge today, Quartermaster.” </p><p>Q pulls off his glasses and pinches at the bridge of his nose, and lets his eyes fall close for a moment. “It’s been a rather long week.” </p><p> </p><p>When Bond falls off the radar yet again, Q has to weigh tracing his last movements with concentrating on his own assignment, dealing with a hacker of some renown. Either way, agents keep plotting, the world keeps spinning and Q Branch needs to continue doing what it does best. </p><p>Or does it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone still remember this series? *crickets chirp* I know it's been a long while. 
> 
> I'm generally a one-shot writer, but while planning this fic it became very long and complicated and I realized if I tried to go the one-shot way it'll be forever before I can post it in full. And then the _Spectre_ trailer came out and I started panicking a little. ~~I'm very excited about the trailer, but yeah~~. 
> 
> So here it is. I'm challenging myself by posting this as a chaptered fic. This will be the first time I'm posting a WIP, but the fic is outlined and I've written chunks of the later chapters, which will hopefully cut down on plot holes and such.
> 
> To all of you who have read and left kudos and written comments on the Traceability fics in the past months (years) – this one's for you.

There’s a painfully expensive topcoat hanging in Q’s front closet, and try as he might, Q can’t manage to return it to its rightful owner.

It’s very warm and made of quality wool, and Q actually took a moment to consider the cost before he sighed and swallowed the equally expensive dry-cleaning bill. It’s a trade-off for avoiding the absolute uproar the rumour mill would go up in if Q arrived back at headquarters wearing a coat that’s obviously too large for him and traveling in the company of a Double-O. He chose instead to be dropped off at a Tube station to make his own way home, and when he would have left the coat in the passenger seat when he got out, Bond had simply pinned him with a pointed stare until Q gave up and wrapped himself back in it.

Besides, predawn on a winter’s day in London is just as cold as an evening up in the Scottish Highlands – it’s not, but in his drowsy state Q felt the chill just as keenly – and he had quite a way to walk from his station to his flat.

So Q goes home with Bond’s topcoat and the moment he takes it with him his pride won’t let him return it in anything but the pristine condition he found it in that safe house. He doesn’t see a need to put a rush on the dry-cleaning and a week goes by before he gets it back, during which Q meets with the secondary Comms team to delegate some of his less critical projects. Bond, for once, is inconspicuously absent from headquarters.

He messages Bond once about the coat, but the next time he sees the man 007 is en route to an impromptu mission. Riley has the dubious honour of equipping him, and so the topcoat continues hanging in the closet next to Q’s parka and the pea coat he rarely wears, a subtle reminder of a conversation in a cold, derelict chapel. Q had thought it would bother him more to put Silva’s ghost to rest, but Q Branch keeps him busy, and constantly trying to catch Bond to return the coat makes it less of a symbol and more of an extension of the enigma that is apparently a Double-O’s second calling.

“I know you Double-Os are accustomed to using and discarding gear, but this isn’t a combat situation and I hate needless waste,” Q says when Bond finally shows up to be kitted out for a mission – at Q Branch, instead of a discreet spot somewhere out in the city where Q can safely hand over the topcoat without eagle-eyed and ever curious MI6 personnel around. He’d been tempted to just bundle up the topcoat and shove it in a briefcase as part of 007’s equipment kit, but the dry-cleaning was pricey and something in Q balks at rumpling up the coat after all that effort.  

Bond has the gall to look amused. “Is this about the topcoat?”

Q runs a swift eye over the contents of the attaché case, ticking off a mental checklist before closing and securing the locks and sliding it over to the Double-O. “I took the coat as my due for being kidnapped but I don’t actually want to keep it now that the trip is over.”

“I see little difference. I left it at the safe house; it’s not like it saw any use there either.”

“Your coat stored in the safe house is like the weapons in my inventory: easily accessible. Your coat hanging in my closet is like locking up a gun in an unbreakable safe where it’s taking up space and serves no practical application because I don’t use guns.”

Is it Q’s imagination, or does Bond seem prone to smirking today? It’s just the faintest lift to his eyes and lips, which is somehow more aggravating than to seeing it outright. “I could come by your place to pick it up.”

“No,” Q says flatly. The location of his flat isn’t exactly a secret by any stretch of the imagination – he has to file a working address with Security, and sealed though those records might be he’s well aware he works in an agency that deals with and delights in unearthing the undisclosed. But there’s a difference between accepting the inevitable – oh, he’s heard the stories of how Bond broke into the former M’s residence before – and actively encouraging it, and Q values his privacy.

The ones who trade in secrets always do.

“Then it seems we are at an impasse.” Bond picks up the attaché case and slides his gun smoothly into its holster, a sure enough signal that he’s on duty, but continues to linger in Q’s office like an obtrusive shadow.

There are several reasons why Q prefers to meet Double-Os outside of headquarters. For one, it eases their transition into the mission and allows them to depart immediately, saving time. Secondly, Q rarely lets field agents into his office and the Double-Os universally take interest on the odd occasion Q meets with them there.

Of the lot, Bond is probably the worst offender. It’s how he recognized the Silva program, after all, a fact that prompted him to take Q to Skyfall, leading to the situation Q is currently in.

Narrowing his eyes, Q says, “I thought you might want to keep that trip low-profile, but if you don’t mind, then I’ll simply bring the coat to work and return it to you when you return from your mission.”

“Whatever happened to not fuelling the rumour mill?”

“In this case, I would consider the loss in productivity adequate payoff for the information I can mine from my team’s reactions.”

There’s a note of quiet amusement in Bond’s voice. “You could leave the coat with Eve.”

“She’ll skin you alive first,” Q replies without missing a beat, because the last time someone tested Moneypenny’s patience there had been blood on the floor, although that was mainly because the agent in question had scrambled back, tripped and nicked himself rather badly on a sharp corner of her desk. Moneypenny and Bond have a rather unique friendship and she would probably find being part of Bond’s antics amusing, but Q prefers to stay on her good side as much as possible. “I should also mention – that train won’t wait for you forever.”

Bond continues on as if he didn’t hear the last sentence at all. “You should live a little, Q.”

“Good evening, 007,” Q says pointedly.

Bond doesn’t bother replying, but somehow the quiet way he snaps the office door shut makes it sound like the final word in the conversation. Q can’t help shaking his head, but there’s a smile lurking at the corners of his lips when he turns back to his computer systems; here, in the privacy of his office, he doesn’t have to hide it.

That’s been happening quite a lot, recently.  

\---

The Secret Intelligence Service has had to adapt to many changes over its long history, and the exponential evolution of technology has kept the agency on its toes. Attacks can happen at any time and can be just as devastating when deployed remotely. Often, it’s a race to outsmart the enemy – with better equipment, better information or better strategies.

It’s the definition of Q Branch’s value to MI6, and the reason why Q’s security systems and cybertechnology have become so integral to Q Branch; no one person is capable of constant vigilance without eventually keeling over from exhaustion and overwrought nerves. Even continuous roster rotation and partnerships – as those that exist between Q Branch and the numerous other MI6 departments – allow for dangers to slip through the cracks, but technology never rests and Q’s systems are capable of pulling information from a thousand mechanical eyes, from a million data entry points, always watching, always monitoring.

Right now, Q is staring at a camera feed with an obscured view of his public workstation at Q Branch’s main observation lab, and has to resist kneading at his temple.

The private chat system his underlings utilize is already abuzz with speculation; Q reads on with morbid fascination even as he swipes his access card at MI6’s main entrance, opting to take the long route down to Q Branch just so he can finish skimming the highlights.

As far as Q can tell, no one actually dares to approach his workstation, which is a restraint he commends them for. The package itself appears fairly innocuous: a plain canvas bag containing several small packages, the metal top of a thermos flask peeking out of a side compartment. But set against the computer screens, neatly coiled cables and the elaborate communications setup that comprises Q’s station, it stands out like a beacon to his ever curious team.

On the chat, the Communications team are the most vocal – unsurprising, seeing as his workstation is right in their midst – but Inventories are overly invested in the mystery bag, which to their expert opinion appears to contain fancy takeout boxes in beautifully wrought packaging. BioSci seems to be split between the extremes of apathy and conspiracy, with the latter half fixating on the possibility of poisoning. Weapons and Engineering is mostly quiet, mainly because Q is just making his way back from testing a prototype with one of their teams. Q gets the sense that they’re catching up on the situation at the same pace that Q is, although one engineer remembers to message the chat at large that Q is on his way back.

The chat explodes in a flurry of anticipation, but when Q finally tags into the main observation lab the space seems utterly normal, with the usual buzz of conversation as the Communications team carry on with their day.

The members of Q Branch might not operate out in the field, but they do still work for MI6.

“Package for you, sir!” chirps one of his underlings – Corrine, who had shot through the Communications section ranks like a comet before steadying out at the expert level; given a few more years, Q predicts she’ll take up a senior position. Her career path echoes Q’s own, although Q has been with MI6 for much longer, and their ages are close enough that she’ll take what liberties she can get away with.

Q gets most of his rumour mill updates from reading her posts in the chat system; sometimes, he even suspects that she knows he lurks there. 

“Who from?”

“Oh – we’re not entirely sure. The bag was on your workstation when we returned from lunch, and Liam and Ricco were on call but didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.”

“And you call yourselves the Communications team,” Q says dryly, flicking a pointed look at the surveillance systems set up all around them.

“Well, only authorized personnel can get into Q Branch, and our actual jobs take priority. Unless you—”

“Thank you, Corrine. If I remember correctly you owe me a program…” He lets his voice trail off, arching an eyebrow in her direction.

“I’m on it, sir,” she says with a grin, “You’ll have it by the end of the day.”

“I’m sure.” Q suspects that her end of day would be closer to midnight than the end of her shift, although in an emergency his team finds surprising ways to pull through. Swallowing back a sigh, he waves her back to her station and pulls out his phone. He has a number of possible suspects in mind, but there’s one name at the top of the list that far outstrips the rest.

_What did I say about the rumour mill?_

The reply comes back near instantaneously. _You said yourself that you could get some data from the way your team reacts._

Q stares down at his phone screen. If his memory serves him correctly Bond should be somewhere in central Europe, unless he’s abandoned the planned route completely. The professional side of Q hopes that he keeps the train tickets because MI6’s resources are not unlimited and refunds are a viable option; that’s why MI6 has a Logistics Branch with a heavy focus on foreign processes. The rest of him is caught up in a mix of exasperation and curiosity.  

 _One, concentrate on the mission. Two, I know for a fact that you_ are _on a mission; why the package?_

This time, Q has just enough time to peer into the canvas bag and consider the discreet logo on the top container before his phone lights up with a response. 

_One, you contacted me first. two, I did promise to wine and dine you when we were back in London._

Surprise joins the exasperation and the curiosity, because those few simple words convey mixed messages. It’s definitely a flirtation, but it also calls back to a more serious conversation they previously had. It’s very likely another one of Bond’s “not-a-test”, whatever they want to call it, except Bond is on assignment and unlike a simple phone call the amount of planning and prearrangement that must have went into the delivery means that it’s far from idle.

If he compares this situation to a strategy game, Q wonders if contacting Bond in the first place would be considered an advancing move. The package is certainly an effective one.

He normally responds within a minute of receiving a message, even if it’s simply an acknowledgment, and the moments that go by is uncharacteristic of him, something that Bond obviously picks up on and can’t resist pointing out.

_Cat caught your tongue?_

Q smiles, very slightly, and taps the owl charm still hanging from his workstation lamp. He’s not a harmless little bird to be preyed upon by inquisitive, insatiable cats; Bond had cast him as an owl, and owls are hunters, silent and efficient.

 _Hardly_ , he writes back, and takes the entire bag, thermos and all, and goes up to the upper levels.

Tanner’s official work zone has evolved to become MI6’s strategy centre, almost a cross between one of Q’s communications lab and M’s office. Top level staff has always had leeway to walk in at any time, and considering how many times Tanner has tried to ply Q with beer, Q figures he can return the favour. 

"How expensive is this?" Tanner asks, poking idly at the box lids with the end of a plastic knife, half his attention still on the wide screen before him.

Q seizes the keyboard and sets up a quick alert program on the footage. "You're asking me? I'm not the one who accompanies M on his high level meetings."

"That would be Moneypenny, actually," Tanner says, watching on unconcernedly as Q sets the system to do a live alert feedback every sixty seconds.

Q pushes the keyboard away from him and considers the thought. “Does 004 do this?”

Tanner glances in his direction; his gaze is light and easy, but it makes Q turn almost defensively back to the keyboard, just to have something to hide behind.

“If you’re asking if she approaches me with a familiarity beyond our professional relationship, then yes. But something as elaborate as this, then no, not quite. Scarlet is much more discreet than 007. She wouldn’t bother pulling in another Double-O to make the delivery.”

“0011, I believe,” Q says. “Both 004 and 0010 are on missions and he has a trickster streak, so much worse than 007.”

“Welcome to the club,” Tanner says. “They like you, which is very good because they’re much more cooperative that way, but catching the Double-Os’ attentions comes with its own set of perils.” He taps the boxes again, raising an eyebrow in Q’s direction as if to say, ‘can we?”, and Q sighs but relents.

The boxes yield up their contents like little treasure boxes, the food cooled but still smelling delicious – gnocchi with a light cream sauce, a salad still crisp and fresh with the dressing in a separate container, roasted chicken with potatoes and onions and peppers in tangy gravy. The dishes probably have fancy names with even fancier descriptions, but all in all they taste delicious.

Tanner watches him taking the sampling bites with an air of amusement, and Q ignores him with all dignity he can muster. He opens the thermos next, wisps of steam rising, a fragrant fruity scent permeating the air. Tea, a lovely red from the hue of the liquid when he pours it out, and when Q takes a sip he tastes grapefruit and gooseberries faintly, the tea blend itself a lovely rooibos, complex and flavourful like a wine.

“Tea,” Tanner says, “Because of course, you don’t drink while at headquarters.”

There’s a careful note in his voice, his tone pointed. Q doesn’t respond, his fingers circling the thermos lid idly, catching the rising warmth from the tea. _Favourites_ , Tanner had said so once himself, when talking about themselves in relation with certain Double-Os; well now it’s clear, with the evidence in front of them, that it’s true in the opposite direction as well.

“Is that a problem?” Q finally asks, because Tanner’s patience is nigh infinite, and he’s always been a little impulsive himself, carefully though that is hidden behind his professional persona.

This time, Tanner actually chuckles at him and reaches for the container of gnocchi, spearing a dumpling expertly with the tip of the plastic knife. “I told you before, I won’t crack down on it unless it becomes destructive.” He smothers his smile at Q’s no doubt ruffled expression. “You’re asking the right questions. I’m not worried.”

Q watches Tanner spear his way through another few dumplings and sips at the tea. He has never lacked in confidence, but the awareness of how much the Silva incident had consumed him still creeps up on him at odd times.  Being blindsided is an issue in a position such as his, and as much as Bond’s various stunts both amuse and exasperate him, Q won’t risk his own flaws dragging the man down.

Troublemaker though he is.

“He has simply pointed out a few facts to me, recently,” Q says to Tanner. “And knows me better than I’d like to admit.”

“Like your drinking habits,” Tanner says, deadpan enough that it is its own form of teasing, and Q just manages to resist rolling his eyes.

“And I plan to reciprocate,” Q says half to himself, because tests and games aside, theirs is a affiliation made of actions and reactions, moves and counters, and Q is hardly going to disrupt the ebb and flow of it now.

“Right now?” Tanner nods towards Q’s phone.

This time, Q laughs. “No.” He was only comfortable with sending the first few messages because it’s the beginning stages of the mission, and he’s programmed the Double-O’s phone to automatically delete and purge all incoming communications automatically after a call is picked up or the text is opened, or in thirty minutes if the message is left unread. Bond didn’t reply the last message, and Q won’t risk distracting him now. “He’s on a mission and I have my duties, and I’m hardly that unprofessional.”

Tanner just nods at him, and the easy systematic way he goes through the chicken speaks volumes more than his words. Q picks at the gnocchi, the cream sauce rich on his tongue, and turns his mind to his next potential project – weapons, of course, or perhaps automotive mechanics, just this once. Something the Double-Os would love, efficient and deadly. 

\---

There is something about traditional art that appeals to Q in his default state, the person he is when he is not at Q Branch and does not have to maintain the confident, almost impish image that is his favourite persona to project while at work. It’s partly the physicality of the paintings, the way Q likes the soft keys and hard lines of his keyboard under his fingertips when he codes, and very much because of the abstractness that Q perceives in them; he doesn’t always understand what the paintings are trying to convey, but he can appreciate them for their stark beauty and the rawness of the emotions they occasionally inspire in him.

He also likes the National Gallery for the breath of space and peace he gets when he visits during off-peak hours, a place where he can usually lower his guard without exposing his vulnerabilities.

The woman who sits beside him looks like she could be an exhibit herself. She moves with a natural elegance and wears her age gracefully, dark hair coiled in an understated bun and struck through with exquisitely crafted silver hair sticks, like a leather scabbard sheathing sharp steel underneath.

“Quartermaster,” she says.

“Commissary,” he says in turn, without bothering to modulate his voice – she requested the meet up, which means she’s responsible for the privacy of their conversation.

It’s so much easier for her, after all. Q wouldn’t be surprised if the Home Office had eyes and ears in most of London’s major public buildings, and as his counterpart in MI5 with a significantly longer term of service, C probably organized the surveillance in those places herself.

“It’s been a few months, hasn’t it?” she says.

“The recent attacks in our neighbouring countries must have kept you very busy,” Q says in turn.

“Indeed. We’ve put into place a number of countermeasures in the event that the sentiments that prompted the attacks gain traction here as well. Still, I thought our friends abroad might have pulled you and yours in.”

“They didn’t request assistance, so we’ve kept our distance. But there’s always plenty to keep us busy.”

She inclines her head, and the ornaments in her hair sticks catch in the light.

“I never took you as one for road trips.”

They are alone, a respect they afford each other as part of the camaraderie that naturally comes from sharing similiar unique roles in parallel agencies. It’s one of the reasons why Q is able to lower his guard here, but not completely; C is like a chess master who would exploit all weaknesses to systematically collect pieces from the board, and Q has never been very good at chess.

But he is excellent at cracking cyphers and constructing security protocols, and their differing expertise makes the unspoken push and pull of power play both perilous and intriguing.

“Observant of you.”

She meets his gaze, almond eyes crinkling in quiet amusement. “You’re talented, my friend, but I have a strong team, and sometimes half a dozen pairs of human eyes are better than that single brilliant head of yours.”

Q knew the moment he broke into London’s internal systems to hasten his and Bond’s journey out of the city that there was always a chance the Home Office would notice. There’s a lot of leeway given between the sister agencies and Q hadn’t bothered concealing his tracks beyond what he can normally do with the reduced capacity of his phone, but there are unspoken rules about this; he can use their resources, but MI5 would note it down if they became aware of it, and one day, they would come to collect.

It is weeks after the fact, however, and Q’s transgression doesn’t give C much leverage – it isn’t considered severe in their line of work – which means that her request is through official channels.

“I wasn’t trying to hide.”

“I know, if only because I know what you’re like. If you did, my team would be hard pressed to even notice.” She reaches for her handbag and pulls out a folder, discreetly slipping the memory card into his hand when she passes the papers over. “Hence the nature of my request. The man in question is a hacker.” 

“Whatever happened to your communications officer?”

“He’s supervising an operation that requires his full attention. Jacobs also slipped past immigration and is now physically outside the United Kingdom’s borders, which puts him rather nicely in your playing sphere.”

Q looks curiously through the folder; there’s a surprisingly concise profile of the man – known aliases, Jacobs being the most frequently used one, physical movements, even a somewhat blurry photograph, seemingly pulled off a security feed.

“You seem to have a lot more information on him as a person than on his work as a hacker,” Q comments, although there are probably examples of Jacobs’ coding on the memory card.

“He specializes in close-proximity hacking, mostly by monitoring radio signals. He’s been snooping in quite a few areas. I’m surprised he hasn’t gone after Q-net.”

Q’s hands go momentarily still on the papers. “Has he made off with sensitive information?”

“Nothing that we are not already in the process of mitigating.” C’s voice contains just the faintest hint of irritation, and it’s that tone, more than anything else, that settles Q right down, assures him that the situation is under control.

“I see.” He closes the folder and folds his hands neatly atop them. “And?”

“I would like you to handle this one personally.”

Q meets her eyes. It’s an interesting request – there’s some amount of mission shuffling between their agencies, and even some research sharing between Q Branch and C’s corresponding research group in MI5 – and Q normally delegates the jobs on his side to the appropriate Q Branch sections. His communication team would enjoy this challenge, and as C herself said, sometimes a team can work better than one individual on a mission like this.

Still, he is the Secret Service’s resident cybersecurity expert, and it’s hardly a hardship to run this operation. It doesn’t cost him anything to agree, and it will cross his debt off C’s list; Q doesn’t like owing anyone outside of MI6 favours, no matter how inconsequential they may appear. “That’s fine.”

C smiles, and just like that the formality of the situation falls away, the official negotiations done with, the conversation now open to any and all machinations.

“You should go on field trips more often,” she says, “if it makes you this agreeable.”

She’s fishing and not making any effort to hide it; Q shakes his head and gives her an enigmatic smile of his own. “Perhaps. Have you gone on any interesting trips of you own, then?”

“Do you expect me to believe that you don’t already know?”

It’s difficult deciphering the shade of her unwavering smile, the slight lilt in her voice, and so Q opts for the truth.

“Forgive me for saying so, but tracking MI5’s movements is rather low on my list of priorities when compared to the many existing organizations and persons of interest who pose threats to our nation. And I know better than to cross your boundaries without an ironclad reason.”

There is steel in C’s gaze, very well hidden, and although they are counterparts Q never forgets that she has a good two decades over him, in both knowledge and experience. But then her smile fades and she casts a look in his direction, piercing and honest; it’s a glimpse of C in underneath her own facades. “Likewise.”

Q watches her for a long moment, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the folder, but she simply returns his gaze calmly, and after a moment Q turns to study the artwork in front of him.

“What exactly do you want with Jacobs?” he asks instead, because C’s made some pretty outlandish requests before, and it’s always best not to assume that he knows what she wants.

“He didn’t crack through much of our security, but it would be nice to know his whereabouts, and even nicer to have him in custody.” She shakes her head. “Before other nationals get to him, at any rate.”

“Are you trying to recruit him?” Q asks wryly. “Because I can see why you would want me of all people to vet him first, if that’s the case.” 

C pauses for a very brief moment, and then she tips her head to the side, almost in amusement. “Find him first. Then we’ll see.”

Q tucks the folder away in his messenger bag and then stands, extending his hand automatically to help C to her feet. She takes his arm with a firm grip, because although she hardly needs the help Q knows she’s still charmed by it.

“I’ll assess Jacobs’ file and give you an appraisal by the end of the week,” Q says. “Depending on how much attention he’s garnered, a slower, more systematic approach might work in our favour.”

C nods. “You are welcome to London’s surveillance systems. Well,” she says with a smile, “perhaps welcome is too strong a word. I can’t stop you from accessing them, but please do refrain from tampering with the city’s network in the future. The traffic system is set up the way it is for a multitude of reasons.”

Q dips his head briefly, acknowledging the request without ceding ground. “Have a good afternoon, Commissary.”

C’s voice is a murmur in his ears as he turns away, quiet and inexorable as a flowing river. “Happy hunting, Quartermaster.” 

\---

Q sets a number of his programs running on Jacobs’ file, collating any and all information based on the details MI5 had already gleaned and from the identifiers in the sample of the man’s coding. He sets another system running a day later, sifting through the data and eliminating the more inane and irrelevant information. The joy and beauty of a program, Q knows, is that all the hard work goes in the planning and creation of it, in the writing of the physical code; once the software is up and functioning, execution is only a matter of setting parameters and clicking _go_.

Of course, there’s only so much a program can do – Q will need to slog through what’s been filtered himself before planning his next move and schedules an entire day to do as such. In the meantime, he devotes his attention to putting out all sorts of metaphorical fires at Q Branch in a futile attempt to circumvent any potential problems coming up when he needs most to concentrate.

The nature of their line of work is that Tanner appears at the main observation lab just as Q is preparing to hand over duties to Riley, so he can take himself off the Q Branch roster.

“Nothing official,” Tanner says when both Q and Riley turn immediately to him, fully expecting an emergency that Q Branch needs to call in on; otherwise, the Chief of Staff prefers to visit during off-peak hours when the labs are emptier. “Heading to your office, Q? I’ll wait for you.”

Riley gives Tanner an appraising look before turning away, executing the transfer with quick efficient movements before detaching Q’s core tablet, the one he keeps just for periodic Q Branch updates when he’s at headquarters but not actively on duty and yet can’t help but keep an eye on his division anyway.

“You’re off duty tomorrow, sir,” Riley says as he hands over the tablet. “Do try not to hole yourself up in your office for longer than eight hours at a time.” And then to Tanner, in a tone that is much more a command then request, “He has already worked half a shift. Make sure he eats something.”

“Thank you, Riley. I leave Q Branch in your capable hands,” Q says in his driest voice and joins Tanner, the lab doors sliding shut behind them as they step into the corridor.

“Another side project?” Tanner asks.

“An official one.”

Tanner slants him a look. He’s the one who conveys official in-house assignments, but he’s well aware of the links between the Home Office and the Secret Service, tenuous in some divisions and much more formally laid out in others; Q Branch is one of the latter.

“I see. Sounds hefty if Riley has to warn you not to lock yourself in your office for hours at a time.”

“That’s yet to be determined.” And Q hopes to find out figure that out over the next few days. “You were looking for me?”

Tanner nods. "I need to know what equipment you sent 007 out with that we could track him by."

"Standard issue earpiece, communicator, mobile phone," Q says. "No specialized equipment, although I did upgrade some of the Double-Os’s gear recently. Our handlers shouldn’t have a problem; 0010 has called back a few times on a prior assignment. Is 007 refusing to respond again?"

"You aren't keeping tabs on him yourself?"

"Not beyond Q Branch's usual measures for Double-O agents, no." Q stops, his tablet warm in his hands. They’re in one of the lesser used corridors that will take them out from Q Branch into general headquarter spaces, and a crowd is no place to discuss Double-O matters, open secret though the agents themselves are. "I have a whole department to run, and he can take care of himself. What happened?"

Tanner stops as well, turning to face Q. “A good question. We can’t find him, and we certainly haven’t heard from him. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem, but he’s supposed to be in Moscow tonight and we don’t think he is.”

Q has learned to set aside his worry over the Double-Os – otherwise his blood pressure wouldn’t be able to handle the constant stress – but he can’t help the flicker of concern that flares to life at Tanner’s words. “Do you want me to find him?”

"I already have agents tracing him from his last known contact point. I wanted to know if you could have sped it up, but no matter. We'll handle this on our own.”

Q taps his fingers idly on the tablet. It’s not that Q doesn’t trust Tanner’s staff, it’s just that he can do it so much quicker—

“Oh no,” Tanner cuts in smoothly. “I won’t have 007 haunting my office complaining about unnecessary interference when he gets back. And if I know anything about the Home Office and the requests they are forced to pass over to us, it’s that you can do without distractions at this point.”

There’s a steadiness in Tanner that makes him such a good Chief of Staff; Q studies him for a long moment, and Tanner just stares calmly back.

“All right,” Q says, and glances around to take in his surroundings. There’s a set of stairs a few paces down, secured to only unlock during emergencies, that would take Q closer to his office. He steps forward to key in his override code, only for Tanner to step neatly in his path.

“Cafeteria,” he says mildly, and smiles at Q’s exasperated huff. “Consider it a favour, to save me from Riley’s censure.”

“I’m sure you’re very busy,” Q says, “trying to track down a wayward Double-O and all.”

Tanner tips him a nod, and turns to take his own route back to his office. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”  

Q watches him walk away. “I would appreciate that,” he says, and doesn’t doubt that Tanner hears him.

\---

Q does end up making a detour to the cafeteria because he’s a workaholic but an efficient one, and it only makes sense to be well-fed and hydrated before he throws himself into hours of work. Jacobs is a hacker, with the tricks of the trade up his sleeve, and Q knows he’ll need to pick through the data with a fine comb and an eye for the obscured; his programs can only do so much.

He considers, for a very brief moment, on setting his home systems on a hunt for Bond – he has done it before, and he can do it again – but no. There is no real indication that Bond is in trouble he can’t get himself out of, and Tanner has made it clear he doesn’t require assistance at this time.

Still. Distractions _._

The message itself is blank, but the coding behind it takes a few minutes. Q hadn’t planned this in mind when he upgraded the Double-O equipment set, but it’s easy enough to tweak it so the message goes out discreetly, no distracting alerts, packaged so tightly and bounced through so many servers that it will leave only the faintest of traces.

Just a quiet inquiry, the technological equivalent of a questioning glance, enough to let Q put the entire matter aside and focus on the multitude of data in front of him.

His phone sits quiet throughout the entire night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope to finish this before _Spectre_ comes out :'D we'll see if I can manage that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The main observation lab, in contrast to Q’s thoughts, is calm and peaceful today. His team had noticed his preoccupation for the past several days and executed a rather impressive redirection of workflow. It’s not the first time Q Branch has done this, although it’s usually on Riley’s prompting; Q often works best when he’s free to go at speeds and leaps that surpass most minds, and his team is well aware that it is sometimes best to just set him loose until they can find the proper point to join him – usually when they can understand what the hell Q is doing. 
> 
> It’s almost sweet, but Q could really do with a distraction right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had hoped to post this earlier (RL has been pretty atrocious) but here it finally is!
> 
> Thanks ever so much for the comments and kudos on the last chapter - I hope you enjoy this one :)

He’s going to ruin his eyes one day, Q’s favourite medic is fond of warning him, from staring into the glare of computer screens for hours at a time and constantly working in dim, enclosed spaces. It’s one of the positives of his youth; Q knows that one day the long hours and less than optimal habits will catch up with him, but that day is not today.

C’s voice is familiar lilt in his ears, clear and undistorted by the usual low buzz of a transmitted signal, one of the benefits of making this call from his office. “So that’s your final assessment.”

He’s seated at his desk, the majority of his systems and screens powered down and the room dark around him. His medic would have much to say about that, but it’s a psychological comfort, boundaries laid out to contain the intricacies of his mind; Q’s world is narrowed to that within the pool of orange light cast by his desk lamp, and anything else beyond it – the bustle of Q Branch, the constant nagging concerns, even the natural darkness of an enclosed room – can’t touch him here.

“If you’re looking to recruit Jacobs, I suggest you look elsewhere,” Q confirms, and lets himself tick down the list again. “The man has far too many ties, both on the darknet and to a variety of organizations. You can’t make him disappear completely, and his contacts will never consent to letting him wander free, whatever the reasons you think you can devise. He’s like a spider poised in a perfectly balanced web; cut one string, and the others will only pull tighter.”

C makes a quiet noise of acknowledgment, and over his earpiece Q can hear the faint rasp of a pen over paper.

“And there’s the matter of logistics. Unless you lure him back into the United Kingdom, it would be hard to physically restrain him. Otherwise, you would need to have authorization to send out an agent. And he moves, often.”

“That’s a shame. I rather thought we’d have a chance to acquire an asset like you.”

Sometimes Q doesn’t know if C is teasing or she’s speaking the truth.

“I’m a special case.” Q keeps his voice neutral, and changes the subject as a precaution. “I might go after Jacobs, however. I’m concerned about some of the affairs he’s tied up in.”

There’s something about Jacobs that doesn’t sit quite right with Q, something more than the man’s prowess as a hacker. He is intelligent the way Silva had been cunning, but the lack of a personal thirst for revenge keeps the hacker’s movements razor-sharp and resolute. He’s hiding something significant, something that he’s actively calling a buyer for on one of the darknets, and Q is both intrigued and troubled.

“That’s vindictive of you,” C says. “Once, you could have been in Jacobs’s position.”

“And having an intelligence agency crash into one’s life – that’s exactly what happened to me, isn’t it,” Q says sharply, and then slaps his open palm against his head. His damn broken filters again. “My apologies. It’s different from this side of the equation, now.”

“You’re on edge today, Quartermaster.”

Q pulls off his glasses and pinches at the bridge of his nose, and lets his eyes fall close for a moment. “It’s been a rather long week.”

“Oh?”

Q opens his eyes, and one of his worries has come to roost within his circle of light, called to the forefront of his mind by C’s near wordless inquiry.

Bond hadn’t activated the quit button – it would have made him nigh untraceable, yes, but it would have also been a sure enough signal and an instant alarm for MI6 handlers – so it had only taken the team so long to map out the Double-O’s convoluted journey, crisscrossing most of Eastern Europe. The resulting footages had not been comforting; it had been a path of carefully targeted dead bodies and systematic destruction, and a single audio record full of gunshots and an explosion that shorted out and destroyed the feed.

Not unusual of a Double-O mission, but disturbing when the Double-O in question doesn’t show up afterwards.

Tanner is on edge, the team that had been tracing Bond’s signal is on edge, and Q himself would join them if he hadn’t focused all his attention on Jacobs’s file. Tanner doesn’t tell Q about whatever happened or didn’t happen in Moscow in 007’s absence. Short of breaking into M’s Double-O mission files Q will likely never find out, and doing so would be tantamount to professional suicide.

“I’ve had both Medical and Logistics flag up Q Branch,” is what he says aloud. “I set one of my teams working on automobile modifications, and they managed to crash the prototype in one short afternoon. There were no serious injuries, but I heard the fireball was quite spectacular, and they took out the eastern wall of our designated track.”

C’s bell-like laughter is both amused and sympathetic. “Such are the perils of leading a division of free-thinkers. Did the scale experiment not reveal the flaw?”

“Let me know when you manage to corral your team into working with scale models, so I can emulate your methods.” Q fiddles with the screen of the lone lit monitor, shuffling through the files, his eyes not quite focusing on the contents. “And how was your week?”

“Tolerable, but only just. I have had to deal with a particularly tenacious and troublesome agent who does not deign to be handled.”

“That would describe at least half of our agencies’ agents.”

“I suppose,’ C says. “You have my blessings to go after Jacobs. There is little benefit to attempting to recruit him at this time, and perhaps he’ll make a good challenge for you. It’s been some time since you last went up against someone of your calibre, hasn’t it?”

Q blinks, and pulls his glasses back on. “You’re giving up your claim on a possible asset?”

“Not quite, but if you want to pursue him, you can. It’s not like he won’t continue hacking in the meantime, and you have good instincts.”

“Indeed,” Q murmurs, and sends all of Jacobs’s files back to their respective folders with a flick of his finger. “I will consider it.”

_\---_

And consider it is exactly what Q does, after a fruitless search for a certain missing Double-O agent.

Perhaps he had been overconfident, having once found Bond on a previous mission even with the quit button activated. Tanner’s team is good, but they don’t think like Q does and they don’t have the data that Q possesses, factors and identifiers and a surprisingly intimate knowledge of how the man thinks – the other handlers had expressed some doubt in the report they’d compiled on Bond’s last known movements, but Q had taken a look and marvelled, for just a moment, that he’d been able to follow the logic in Bond’s decisions.

He doesn’t always understand those actions, much less condone them, but Q can’t say he’s surprised by them anymore. Perhaps Q really has become acclimatized to Bond’s special brand of chaos.

Q had gone on his own search shortly after ending the call with C, keeping the team’s report as a reference but striking out on his own, and ran into the exact same problem they did. The trail cuts off cleanly, and even of the last moments Q only has the audio recording, no visuals. Q expanded his search, picking up leads here and there and whittling them down until he has partial profiles on at least a dozen people in the region on various clandestine errands, but no further news on Bond himself.

Double-O missions are classified and highly volatile, and there was little reason to send in a conspicuous extraction team when there is no evidence of a body – dead or alive – to extract. Tanner had waited on news from local personnel, who had only stated that the warehouse had been badly damaged by the explosion that killed the feed, and then he’d sent an agent with enough experience to even begin working out the mystery to the region on a mission, with specific instructions to make a detour when possible. 

Q can’t do anything about the brevity of data, and he certainly doesn’t have the authority to order an expert of his own out there himself. Especially since no one has formally asked him to step in; Q had simply helped himself to the files Tanner and his staff compiled.

So it’s back to waiting on Tanner’s chosen agent to make the journey over, and Q lets the irritation wash through him; the one time he needs eyes on the ground and a hand to potentially pull the trigger, and Bond has disappeared.

The main observation lab, in contrast to Q’s thoughts, is calm and peaceful today. His team had noticed his preoccupation for the past several days and executed a rather impressive redirection of workflow, with reports going to the senior staff and the individual section leads seizing most of the requests normally funnelled Q’s way. It’s not the first time Q Branch has done this, although it’s usually on Riley’s prompting; Q often works best when he’s free to go at speeds and leaps that surpass most minds, and his team is well aware that it is sometimes best to just set him loose until they can find the proper point to join him – usually when they can understand what the hell Q is doing.

It’s almost sweet, but Q could really do with a distraction right now.

“Comms team,” he says, and the room snaps immediately to attention. “Anyone with an alpha level or above assignment, take one of the private rooms; use my code. Those of you currently working on beta assignments and below, save your progress and join me on the network in ten minutes.”

As his underlings scramble to do his bidding, Q wakes up all the systems at his workstation. Finally, Omen, currently the most senior Comms member remaining, puts a lock on the observation lab doors, and nods in his direction. “At your leisure, sir.”

“This is not a formal operation, but you may consider it an indigo assignment. Our person of interest today is a hacker; his most notable alias is Jacobs.” Q begins deploying assignments, each accompanied with the relevant information on Jacob’s file. “I’ve been tracking him the past several days. He has been flagged as a specialist in close-proximity hacking and has ties to many code red organizations, but he deals in much more than that. He’s selling something for exorbitant prices on the darknet, and the bidding war has been… messy.”

He accesses the specific darknet and pulls up the bid in question. “There are eight-one hours until the bid ends, but there’s always a chance Jacobs will take an unlisted offer. I want to know what he’s dealing in.”

“Is there a reason why we’re going after him, sir?” one of his underlings asks.

Q doesn’t look away from his projected screen. “His last known target in the United Kingdom was MI5.”

A ripple of surprise goes through the room.

“Relevant sources assured me that he did not succeed, and neither has he tried to break into Q-net. However, I know people like him. He’ll try again. Why let him strike first this time?”

He turns away from his screen and sweeps the room. Every face he looks into is filled with interest or anticipation; emergencies are stressful, but an impromptu operation lead by Q – well, according to the Q Branch private chat after the few times Q has done this, those are exciting and hence the most fun.

“You have your assignments.” Q has to hide his slight smile, his team’s enthusiasm melting away his earlier tension. “Go.”

It takes a few minutes for the team to synch up, for the numerous and varied styles to smooth out and work in tandem with each other. They’re going at it from several angles at once – one as a potential buyer, another tracking Jacobs’s lesser known aliases, more of them trying to crack Jacobs’ primary alias itself. Q sticks with supervision; its good practice for his team and he can concentrate on the information they dig up.

C has the right of it – on occasion, a team does indeed work better than going at it solo.

They’re about three hours into it when Liam catches the faint signal and traces it back to a private network. Some careful snooping later, and Liam’s unit offers up their conclusion.

“A honeynet.” Q considers the decoy network for a moment. The vulnerabilities Liam had highlighted are subtle, but too deliberate for a hacker of Jacobs’s competence to be anything but a lure and a distraction. Q-net hosts a number of honeypots and there’s a reason Q uses them as a layer of Q-net’s defence; they are effective and allow his team to study the techniques attackers use when they attempt to compromise those supposed vulnerabilities. The reverse is also true – Q has to be careful approaching someone else’s honeynet, or he risks trapping his team.

“Omen,” he says at last, and the man nods in acknowledgment. “Be a bear and go after the pots, will you? Keep it generic.”

He logs into his own systems to shadow Omen’s movements as they break through firewall after firewall, accessing services and databases while trying to leave as few identifiers as possible. Q waits—

Something seizes their network with the grip of an adder strike and Q reacts instantaneously, pulling the fail safes and cutting off the rest of Q Branch, leaving Omen’s laptop the sole vulnerable unit and the focus of their hacker’s attack. As Omen executes countermeasures to keep the attacker from overwhelming him, Q reroutes the power in the room, shutting off non-essential equipment and redirecting all energy to the active workstations. The lights go dim around them.

Omen’s laptop is a lost cause, Jacob’s attack damaging the system to the point where there’s imminent hardware failure; Q can smell the metallic tang of overheating circuit boards. Switching seamlessly onto his workstation’s permanent unit and connecting it back onto the network, Q spots the momentary vulnerability in Jacob’s firewall and punches through, crashing through Jacobs’ defence systems. He sets the worm loose, stealing and destroying data as it goes, and watches carefully for Jacob’s reaction.

Rather than shut down his own network, a window pops up on Q’s screen – Jacobs choosing direct contact rather than salvaging his data.

_United Kingdom IP._

Q’s eyes narrow; Q Branch is unavoidably linked to London, no matter how much they splice and bounce signals across proxies, but the chances of figuring that out is miniscule. Jacobs is much more skilled than C’s files and his own initial assessment led Q to believe, although in a show of brute force Q is likely the quicker, and with much more capacity at his disposal.

_Getting desperate, aren’t you?_

“The opposite would seem more accurate,” Q says, trusting his voice-to-text program to translate his words accordingly. He doesn’t usually like using voice commands, but he’s rather invested in scouring as much as Jacobs’ system as possible.

_You’ve gotten nothing that you don’t already know._

“There’s always something to be gleaned from any data, even duplications. They’ll give up secrets.”

_Like you gave up yours. Thank you for that._

Q pauses, his programs continuing their systematic gleaning and destruction, and turns his attention fully to the simple window. He turns off the voice-to-text program with a few keystrokes, saying, “Liam, Corrine. Start analysing what we’ve salvaged from Jacobs’ network” even as he reads the line of text again, ignoring his underlings as they gather around him, physically connecting their own systems to his workstation.

This time, Q types his response directly onto the keyboard.

 _Wherever you go, we will find you_.

_The Spooks are toothless and there are only three Double-Os in commission now. I will take my chances._

It’s like the leading edge of an approaching storm, the way the general cacophony of the lab gradually falls away as his staff takes note of the exchange even in the midst of their own work, or notice suddenly that their peers have gone silent and hence go quiet themselves. There is the soft clatter of keys, the ever-present whirr of machinery, and then there is Q’s breathing, sounding harsh in his own ears.

 _And I will take that challenge_ , he types, just before his program slices through too much of Jacobs’s network and the connection collapses.

Q instinctively brings the observation lab out of emergency mode and pulls up Q-net’s status. Several members of his team are already coding patches to shore up the firewalls. It should be reassuring; they are undoubtedly the victors in this encounter, but Q can’t quite bring himself to move his hands from his keyboard.

“Take down what you can of his operation and corner him,” he says, his voice even and expressionless – almost cold. “I want him to have no recourse but whatever options we choose to give him later. Do it discreetly.” Q takes a slow, even breath, and runs systematically through the possible options. “Keep him distracted and occupied. Omen, you’re leading the team.”

“And you, sir?” Corrine pipes up, her hands still flying furiously over her keyboard.

“The Spooks are considered the MI5 elite and he referenced the Double-Os.” Q just stands there for a moment, thinking out loud. “He’s very confident, to challenge a nation’s military intelligence so directly.”

And there’s the incongruity that comes from the personal way Jacobs had responded, almost as if he expected the confrontation and knew the person he thought was on the other side of the screen.

Q focuses back on Corrine with a suddenness that is startling, the lab lights now bright and the Comms teams’ attention on him like physical brands on his skin. There’s a faint sense of unease clawing at the edge of his thoughts and Q can see it in his teams’ faces, all determined and too many of them coloured with concern – mostly for him.

Q can’t let the thought catch him, not right now.

“To work,” he says firmly, and the unanimous “Yes sir!” is gratifying. There’s a different air in the lab now, a stillness paired with growing manic electricity that is the Q Branch communications team roused, defensive but preparing very much to strike. The Double-Os are hunters at the very top of the food chain, but Q likens his division to forces of nature: they do their jobs – affect change – despite all attempts to control them. The aurora is lovely, the slow steady rise of seawater deadly, and the great ice storms of the north utterly destructive.

Q can trust them to do their jobs without intervention on his part.

On an impulse, he picks up his phone and sends the text message, blank and encrypted all the same. He has come to expect the silence now, but he gives himself three minutes to wait for a non-existent reply, using the time to let his thoughts fade out into nothingness, his breathing falling calm and even soon after. When he finally lifts his head, his mind is clear and there are the beginnings of an utterly mad plan taking shape in place of the unease.

 _Happy hunting_ , the memory of C’s voice drifts through Q’s mind, and Q thinks,  _Indeed._

\--- 

He’s making his way back to his office after checking in with the Comms team when Q runs quite literally into Tanner.

The entrapment is delicate work, especially with Jacobs already on the alert from Q Branch’s direct attack, but the team is doing well, balancing aggressiveness with discretion. Q wishes, just a little, that their efforts would end up more than just a means to an end, but they are the distraction, and Q has already made his move.

It’s a matter of waiting now, but hours – days – of planning had gone into it beforehand, so Q is understandably blurry-eyed and irritable when Tanner catches him by one shoulder, just barely managing to sidestep him. Q shrugs his hand off instinctively, backing away to put some distance between them.

Q blames the suddenness of the encounter for his broken filters.

“I’ve been told there are only three Double-Os in commission now.” The walls of the building are designed to absorb sound, but Q’s words seem to ring in the space between them all the same. “Which three?”

There’s a poignant pause where Tanner just looks at him, placid and unemotional, and then he counts the agents off, easy as water over smooth pebbles. “0010 is in the Americas. 0011 is assisting with something difficult in Asia. There should be something coming up for 004 in a few days.”

The omission is glaringly obvious, and Q finds for once that he doesn’t want to hear it. “I thought so.” He focuses on his surroundings, and then he turns his stare expectantly on Tanner. “The only things in this direction are the weapons labs below, or my office a floor up.”

“How did you know?”

“Were you coming to find me?”

Tanner continues on in a calm voice that is in complete odds with his words. “Because I only found out this morning.”

Q’s hand goes to his pocket and his phone within. Tracing the shape of it makes him feel better, the possibility of connection. “And.”

“Officially, MIA.”

Yes, Q had thought so, but hearing it from someone else makes it more real, somehow.

“I checked, you know.” His voice sounds detached even in his own ears, like it belongs to someone else. “No one knows that you’ve changed 007’s status, because it’s not in the system. This means you have it on a paper trail.”

“M’s orders,” Tanner says. “If it’s worth anything, I think Bond’s still crawling around somewhere, spitting in the faces of those who tried to blow him up.”

Q taps idly at his phone, and then he turns to stare Tanner in the eye, the words registering more fully. “Your agent returned from her mission. And did she have time to make a side trip?”

Something in Tanner’s expression flickers, passing so swiftly that Q can’t make sense of it. “She did,” he says. “And I’ll trade you the information if you tell me how you found out about Bond’s status.”

Q smiles. “How in the world do cybersecurity experts normally get their information, I wonder.”

“I am almost certain that M ordered the status change to go through on paper at least in part because of personnel like you; technology is yet another potential entrance into a locked room. And I thought you were tied up with that communications team operation of yours.”

“Yes.” Q lets the smile on his lips fade – Tanner is tenacious, and he rarely makes an enquiry for the third time. “All evidence points to 007 being off the radar with no sign of his movements or indication that he’s still on assignment. It isn’t out of the realm of possibility for him to be declared missing-in-action in less than two weeks, especially with his track record.”

“And.”

Gallingly, Tanner manages to echo the same flat but emphatic tone Q himself used with the word earlier. He stifles the urge to sigh. “And it was something that came up during the initial encounter with the hacker Q Branch is tracking, an observation he made about MI6’s Double-Os and MI5’s Spooks. It just made me think about the possibility more.”

For a moment Q thinks that Tanner wouldn’t buy the little white lie, that it was less an observation and very much a statement on Jacobs’ part, the certainty of the Double-Os’ statuses, but Tanner finally nods.

“Quite a bit more. That would explain why your staff have been overzealous in intercepting correspondence from my team to you. I’ll send you the report my agent compiled,” Tanner switches subjects seamlessly, “but you won’t get much more leads than what you’ve already investigated yourself. There isn’t much left of the warehouse to salvage anything of, but we can at least confirm that there are no human remains left behind there.”

Q’s hand clenches unconsciously around his phone and he has to make himself uncurl his fingers, one by one. “Delightful. Yes, do send the file my way – it’s something to take a look at in between status updates on my hacker.”

“Then it will be uploaded to your personal folder shortly.” Tanner shifts his head very slightly to one side; he isn’t careless enough to put a hand to his ear where the earpiece is discreetly tucked, but Q has seen him mid-operation enough times to read the subtle cues. Q nods at him and backs away – it’s the least he can do, because Tanner didn’t need to interrupt his busy schedule to come down to Q Branch to pass on the news in person. It’s that level of consideration, Q thinks, that makes Tanner a good man, a rarity in an agency like theirs.

Q is young and very, very brilliant, and in this he knows he’s like the majority of MI6. Being an expert in cybersecurity requires knowing how to exploit vulnerabilities and sabotage systems, after all, before learning how to defend against those same acts.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, quietly enough that it won’t interrupt Tanner if he’s listening in on something critical, but Tanner catches his gaze. “Yes?”

“I believe Eve is working late tonight.”

 _Oh_.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Q says, turning away, and pretends he doesn’t feel the weight of Tanner’s gaze on his back.

 ---

The key to self-discipline is to not let himself give in to diversions until he has completed everything on his mental to-do list, so Q goes home as planned, sleeps, and continues with his usual routine before he heads back to headquarters, the people of London more or less keeping to themselves in the wintry weather and at that time of night. There are no critical issues at Q Branch and Q leaves shortly after because he’s not actually scheduled for duty on this shift, and when he checks the upper management roster there are no records of Moneypenny tagging out for the day.

He finds Moneypenny at her customary place, looking lethal and sharp in a gorgeous dark dress suit and pencil skirt. She’s already looking up in his direction when Q comes in and her smile is grim. “What can I do for you, Quartermaster?”

Q inclines his head to one side.

Moneypenny glances in the same direction. “M has left for the day. And you hardly need me to leave a message.”

“I hear we’ve misplaced a stray Double-O,” Q says softly.

The room suddenly feels oppressive with that truth laid bare, and Q won’t even pretend to understand the expression on Moneypenny’s face. After a few moments, however, her smile melts into something more sincere. “I wish it wasn’t such a common occurrence.”

There’s a carefully hidden hint of weariness in her voice, and Q gives her a minute, turning to shut the office door behind him and making his way to the front of her desk. When he finally looks at her, she’s studying him with a critical eye. When she sets down her pen with a decisive click, Q knows she’s not going to side-step the issue the way most of Q Branch has.

“Have you been sleeping in your office?”

Q allows himself a slight smile. “I’ve returned to my flat for the hours between, but my team is running an operation and I prefer to stay on-site in case of complications. Especially in the evening hours when most of the team is off-duty.”

“I heard. A hacker. Is he so dangerous an individual that you’re prioritizing this operation so?”

“It’s not at a level where M needs to be informed, but I rather err on the side of caution for this one,” Q says, because she’s M’s secretary. And because she’s also one of the few who pushes because she’s genuinely concerned, he adds, “It’s something to concentrate on, at a time when I rather keep my mind busy.”

Moneypenny nods, and she casts another studying glance at him. “I could do with a break. Would you like to join me?”

“You’re going to make me eat, aren’t you,” Q says in an almost resigned tone. His underlings seem to have taken the canvas bag delivery incident as permission to start dropping food off at Q’s workstation – sandwiches, soups in cup containers and fruits like bananas, all easily transported and convenient to munch on while working and least likely to make a crummy or syrupy mess. Then someone had brought in dense bite-sized brownies that had actually made Q pause and stop coding for five minutes to savoured them slowly, and now a designated corner of his workstation is as likely to spot as wide a variety of baked goods – neatly wrapped foldovers and doughy cookies and thick slices of breads, studded with nuts and dried fruit – as Q’s favourite little café does. 

All because he came in one morning a little paler than usual, low blood sugar paired with too much caffeine making him both light-headed and slightly more manic than usual.

“Not after hearing that, I’m not. Your team seems to have that well in hand.” She stands up, snagging two whisky glasses from her desk drawer, and pushes them into Q’s hands before striding across the room to M’s office. “I know where M keeps the best Scotch.”

She’s in and out in a matter of seconds, and sets the bottle down on her desk to pull her coat from the stand in the corner, sliding it on and buttoning it up to her collar. “It’s a good thing you’re wearing your parka,” she says, and snags the bottle on the way to a side door, a sharp nod the only indication that Q is to follow her.

The stairs are steep and their shoes scruff on a thin layer of dust. This stairwell is rarely used, and the lack of surveillance is a soothing thought; M’s office and the associated spaces around it, including the rooftop, are granted the utmost privacy, secure from outside interferences and internal surveillance. Moneypenny handles the locks at the top of the stairs easily – the lack of technology is a throwback to MI6’s past.

The air up here is frigid, and Q has to muffle an involuntary gasp when he steps beyond the open door’s shelter, the wind cutting into him with a vengeance. Moneypenny barely pauses, and Q readjusts his grip on the whisky glasses, taking a few careful steps before finding his feet against the wind; beyond them is a fairy-lit panorama of London, glowing lights like fireflies in the darkness, lending just enough illumination so Q can see where he’s going. 

Moneypenny hefts the whisky bottle when Q joins her at the roof’s edge, filling the glasses with a deft hand before she takes one from Q. The clink of glass against glass is barely audible, but Q downs the shot at the same moment she does and doesn’t choke – she arches an eyebrow at him and fills the glasses again, two-thirds of the way up, before setting the bottle at her feet, making sure it’s sheltered by the low ledge from the buffet of the wind.

Q reaches up to pull the hood of his parka over his head and is reminded, abruptly, of another evening he spent out in the cold. It had been less windy at Skyfall, just heavy, still air with the glimmer of stars overhead, but he had waited then for a Double-O to make his appearance, sheltered by a too-large topcoat and the hood of the car comfortingly warm where he leaned against it.

Now he has a glass of whisky in his hand and absolutely no idea when or where that Double-O will appear from, and the burn of warmth chasing away the cold is almost as welcomed as the kick of alcohol blunting the sharpest parts of his mind.

“I didn’t find out what happened until M asked me to process his MIA status,” Moneypenny says, just loud enough that her words aren’t lost in the darkness.

“You handled that as well?” Q says.

“Wasn’t that a joy.” She stares at a corner of the rooftop, and if there had been a figure there Q imagines she might set the person on fire from the force of her glare alone. “There are no eyewitnesses or visual footage so we can’t declare him dead, but we can’t have him on the active roster, either. M doesn’t want it on the online system, considering the amount of paperwork we had to file to revive him the last time.”

Q contemplates the shadowy depths of his glass. “We should be so glad M hasn’t completely given up on him this time.”

“That’s part of the problem. I’m always going to have this damnable hope that he just needs to patch himself back up and come limping back a few weeks later.” Moneypenny takes a swallow of her whisky. “I’m not going to sleep properly until we find him or his body.”

Her voice is even, not a hint of fear or sorrow in her perfectly enunciated words, and is it a skill field agents pick up, to be so brutally honest?

“I heard him say once, that his hobby is resurrection,” Q finds himself saying.

Moneypenny’s eyes are almost luminescent in the near darkness. “When was this?”

“When he apprehended Raoul Silva after he parted ways with you in Macau.” Q drains the rest of his whisky and pulls the sleeves of his parka over his hands, just barely clinging onto the glass with the tips of his fingers. “He activated the radio transmitter, and I was listening in.”

“He does love to be dramatic.” She lifts her chin, and pushes her hair out of her face with one decisive movement. “He better not be lying.”

Q lets the silence wrap around them, the cold just barely held at bay by their coats and the alcohol in their bloodstreams. There is a fragile peace here, once removed from the ever-beating heart of headquarters and far above the streets of London; Moneypenny doesn’t seem inclined to move, and Q looks out at the vista beyond them and wonders how many secrets sleep in the city’s shadows.

The soft buzz and chirrup of an alert finally stirs Q from his thoughts – not a text message, but an email. He sets his empty glass on the ledge and pulls out his phone. The message heavily encrypted and doesn’t at all resemble Q’s first communication with Jacobs. Absent are the smooth sentences and direct challenges; there is simply a time, a date, and a location in GPS coordinates.

Q sends back a confirmation, signing it with a key he has used for the past three days and not since nearly a decade ago. Then he guts the phone, removing the sim card and the circuit board and snapping them all in half. His hands are frozen; he doesn’t feel the sharp edges biting into his fingers.

Moneypenny’s attention is nearly a palpable touch against his skin. But she keeps her peace, and simply retrieves the near empty bottle of whisky. “Let’s go back in before we finish off this whole bottle. There are several division leaders and many more senior staff who would be appalled that I’ve corrupted you so.”

The dry air makes Q’s eyes sting under his glasses, but he catches Moneypenny’s eyes and holds that stare. “They should know better.”

Like Q ever needed an outside influence to sway him.

Moneypenny doesn’t startle; instead, her mouth goes up in a wry smile and there’s the weight of experience in her voice when she speaks. “They should, shouldn’t they?”

Q drops the broken pieces of his phone into his pocket and scoops up his whisky glass, takes Moneypenny’s from her hand. “Cafeteria?” he asks her. “My turn to treat you, to something warm and less alcoholic this time. I assume we both have a long night ahead of us.”

“All right,” she says, and if there’s a question in her eyes and faint concern in her voice, Q chooses not to acknowledge it.

He casts one last look at the skyline, the wind a faint howl in his ears, and follows Moneypenny back down into the headquarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Spooks are named so because of the BBC series _Spooks_ , which is about (you guessed it) a team of agents in MI5. Also, I am pretty bad at naming things so the Spooks the elite MI5 agents are.
> 
> (I've only watched a few episodes of _Spooks_ , so this is not a crossover with that series)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do the field agents do this, day in, day out – playing the game, flirting with and sometimes outright courting danger, rolling the dice with each split-second choice they make and putting their lives directly on the line? Q thought his stakes were high enough – he wagers his agents’ lives with every decision he makes as Quartermaster, after all – but standing in front of the suite’s doors, all Q can feel is the rapid pounding of his heart against the cage of his chest. 
> 
> He raises his hand to ring the doorbell anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sweats* I'm a little concerned at how much longer these chapters are getting - they keep growing on me and that's why it's taking me so long to get them out. But anyhow, I hope you enjoy the chapter!

Q respects Riley, which is why he leaves the door to his private workroom fully accessible to Riley’s emergency override code. It takes his second less than an hour to seek him out after Q makes the changes to the roster.

“When I gave you my blessings to take the Quartermaster post, I rather hoped that I wouldn’t need to supervise the choosing of your eventual successor.”

In the days of old, Q thinks, he would be the master tactician and Riley an expert swordsman, the captain of the guard; his second’s aim is deadly, always one to go for the jugular or any other vulnerable spot. Q lets his head hang for just a moment over his worktable, and then turns to meet Riley’s gaze.

“As it ties directly to my wellbeing, I hope you won’t need to either,” he says evenly. They stare at each other for a long minute, Q’s vision half clear and half fuzzy, before Q concedes the upper ground. “It’s not reckless if I have a plan of attack.”

The door swishes shut behind Riley as he steps into the room. “Three days of leave, Q. And you’ve had the team hounding Jacobs for days now.”

“Yes.” Riley knows him too well – it’s both a comforting and an exasperating fact. Q rarely takes stretches of personal days off in advance and never during an active operation; his absences are mostly filed in after a particularly harrowing assignment or due to impromptu kidnappings by certain agents. “It’s just a precaution. Q Branch doesn’t need to worry if I’m suddenly… unreachable.”

“That’s less a plan of attack and more a contingency plan.” Riley pauses, and Q knows he’s meant to fill in the silence with details. He smothers a sigh and gestures at the space before him.

Q’s worktable is a tableau of controlled chaos. There’s a standard agent’s attaché kit cracked open in front of him, although Q will take none of it with him when he finally goes; its contents are merely there to remind Q of the categories he should account for. He has cash and a brand new Oyster card for transportation instead of plane tickets or car keys, and in place of the various communication devices, Q plans to take only a phone. The lack of a medical kit will hopefully be a non-issue; the only things resembling medication are the bottle of solution and eye drops. And for weapons, Q will rely solely on whatever his mind gives him because one, he really dislikes guns, and two, carrying any weapon could very well get him killed.  

Riley’s gaze settles on his discarded glasses, and that’s something Q can address while giving himself some time to think.

“I don’t often wear contacts, but I’ve been told on multiple occasions that my glasses are impractical in a fight.” He turns away and pops the second lens in, blinking a few times to acclimatize himself to them. “I’ll keep these in for a few hours to get used to them again before tomorrow.”

Riley doesn’t mention any of the observations that are undoubtedly going through his mind, such as the fact that Q isn’t an agent, much less one for the field, and that the lack of glasses alters his appearance at a casual glance but not anywhere near enough to fool a vigilant eye. It’s one of the reasons why they work so well in tandem. Riley sees and understands much more than he will ever give away and Q is overzealous regarding anything that has to do with Q Branch; together, it means that it’s entirely possible for them to skip most of the conversation and arrive straight at the heart of the subject.

“How did Jacobs know there are only three Double-Os left on active duty when you first made contact?”

Focusing on tidying up his contact lenses case, Q says, “I don’t know.”

“You’re not—”

“No, I’m not going off to meet Jacobs because I think he’s involved in 007’s disappearance. I’m going to meet him because he made a direct challenge to both MI5 and MI6.” It’s mildly disconcerting to look at Riley without frames at the edge of his vision, the way Q turns his head and misses the slight weight of his glasses. “MI5 flagged up his file once and he’s still selling something incredibly secretive and potentially destructive on the darknet and we have no idea what it is. C assures me that Jacobs didn’t pick up anything from MI5 that they cannot handle, but whatever he has could very likely be from one of our agencies. Or from other sections of the government.”

“He took down the post last night, before the bidding formally ended.”

“I’m aware.” Q moves onto repacking the attaché kit; he barely has to spare a thought for it, his movements easy and systematic from familiarity. “Because he’s received a direct offer. From me.”

Eyes narrowed, Riley says, in what is barely a question, “And you’re meeting him. On the continent.”

“In London, actually. His profile is flagged so I had to subvert the immigration system, but I haven’t received any alerts that my safeguards have been activated. Either he’s coming in late, or he’s found his own way back into the U.K.”

Riley comes up to the worktable and smoothly intercepts Q’s reach for a comms unit, taking over putting back together the attaché case just like that. “That,” he says, “must be one hell of an offer.”

Bereft of anything to fiddle with, Q settles for touching his fingertips to the edge of the table, almost like he’s resting them against a keyboard. “It’s something that would tempt me, so.”

The silence that falls between them is almost comfortable, and it’s broken only when Riley snaps the attaché case shut and seals the lock, setting it to one side. Then, he says, “If you want to keep this off record, there are field agents that owe me favours.”

Relief is a strange sensation, washing through Q like the headiness of champagne, and his hands grip once against the tabletop before he lets go, his fingers curling into his palm. “No. I believe Jacobs is in intelligence, or heavily affiliated with one. It’s better to approach him from the hacker angle, and I have the necessary credentials.”

“Agreed.” There’s a ghost of a smile on Riley’s face. “But as I mentioned, several field agents owe me favours. And I will of course be handling this operation. Sir.”

At another time, the smile would put Q at ease; an amused Riley is a Riley who has looked over Q’s plans and concurred with his conclusions. But there’s also steel in Riley’s voice, an awareness of how unorthodox – and hence dangerous – this endeavour is.

It’s with that thought that Q pulls out a memory card, encrypted with a cipher that only Riley has the key to. “Keep this with you. Just in case I’m not around to execute it myself.”

Riley pockets the memory card without comment. “What time are you rendezvousing with Jacobs?”

“Mid-afternoon.” Q hands him a slip of paper with the time and address written in his own somewhat messy handwriting. Riley reads it through several times to memorize it and then hands the note back; Q will dispose of it later.

“Then I will be at the—” he pauses, mentally working out a strategy “—west side safe house. It will be safer for you if we have minimal contact beforehand, but I will hear from you before you go in.”

It’s a command, not a suggestion; if Q chooses to strike out on his own without checking in with Riley, his second-in-command would very likely send a host of indebted field agents after him.

Q isn’t a fool; he has run enough operations to know that although a handler and the operative’s opinions may differ, the handler will always work in the best interests of the mission. “Yes sir.”

Riley pins him with a very flat stare, and Q can’t help the grin. There’s little predicting what will happen tomorrow, and Q has learned to take whatever liberties he can get today, right now, at this moment.

As the leader of Q Branch he really should be forward-looking, but Q possesses a chaotic streak; he’s just much more methodical about it.

“I will see you tomorrow, Riley.” 

He stands over his worktable for a long while after Riley leaves, preferring to stay in the space associated with his tinkering and his designs rather than the adjoining office where his computer systems are. He doesn’t plan to put himself in undue danger, but somehow his eyes keep sweeping the space, memorizing the layout of the room and the arrangement of his equipment. Riley took the attaché case with him when he left, so Q nudges the edge of his toolbox until its edges are aligned with the worktable, and then picks up his phone.

Instead of the usual blank text he types out a message this time.

 _I trust you to bring yourself back in one piece_.

He doesn’t hesitate before sending it, and then he wipes the records and changes his phone’s registry. By the time he reaches the entrance to his workroom, his hand reaching to snap off the lights, Q has mostly set it at the back of his mind, a niggling subconscious concern joining the usual pressures over Q Branch and the sharper, newer anticipation of his planned confrontation with Jacobs. 

Just another day in the life of MI6’s Quartermaster.

\--- 

It’s a very nice luxury apartment in a very, very nice part of London. He doesn’t look underdressed per se, but the pea coat over Oxford shirt is more professional casual then fashionably chic, which is probably why he has been getting glances since he passed the gated entrance. It’s ironic that it’s Q’s discreet demeanour and form of dress that make him stand out like a wildflower in a garden of exquisite pruned plants, quietly and subtly out of place. Q gets clothes in actual stores, unlike the man sharing the elevator with him. That tie, in understated dark maroon, probably costs more than Q’s monthly rent.

It looks like something the Double-Os would wear, bespoke, comfortable, and very, very durable.

Q carefully puts the thought out of his mind and amuses himself by trying to interpret the stares. He’s young and unaccompanied but was immediately buzzed into the building – is he the youngest son of a well-off family, refusing to completely enter the fold, or is he a high-class escort, bright-eyed and intelligent with school debts to pay off? 

 _Escort_ , Q thinks, when the elevator slows to a halt and the man shoots him another careful look – not focused anywhere near Q’s face – and quirks a smile before stepping off. Q meets his gaze squarely and smiles back – harmless, a touch submissive, but not at all vulnerable. He keeps the thought firmly in mind as the doors close and the elevator continues its way, making sure he’s in clear sight of the security cameras without drawing attention to the fact that he’s fully aware that they’re there.

It really wouldn’t do for Jacobs to think he’s dangerous and to shoot him before Q even gets past the front door, but he can’t go into this from a weakened position, either. First impressions set the stage for further interactions, after all.

How _do_ the field agents do this, day in, day out – playing the game, flirting with and sometimes outright courting danger, rolling the dice with each split-second choice they make and putting their lives directly on the line? Q thought his stakes were high enough – he wagers his agents’ lives with every decision he makes as Quartermaster, after all – but standing in front of the suite’s doors, all Q can feel is the rapid pounding of his heart against the cage of his chest.

He raises his hand to ring the doorbell anyway.

The door swings open without warning and a hand grabs him, pulling him through. Q gets an impression of silver and metal before he’s pushed back against the now closed door, something solid and heavy – the barrel of a gun – pressed unflinchingly over his kidneys.

Bond has honed down many of Q’s useless instinctive reactions over weeks of sparring – he’s unpredictable enough that Q either has to plan his strategies systematically or trust his gut and just _move_ – but this time Q’s instinct tells him to freeze, and for once his mind and his gut are in agreement. It’s not that Bond hasn’t pointed a gun at him, although to Q’s utmost exasperation he tends to wield them like blunt objects, but it’s with a sudden visceral rush of fear that Q realizes it’s always because Bond kills but he won’t ever point a gun at Q with the intent to permanently or even seriously injure—

And that the man in front of him has no such qualms, and it won’t be any skin off his back if the gun goes off ‘accidentally,’ either.

From the security feed photos MI5 obtained, Jacobs had looked unremarkable – dark hair, dark eyes, average height and build. Photos don’t capture the intelligence and straightforwardness of the man’s gaze nor the controlled way he handles the gun even as he runs his free hand in purposeful sweeps over Q’s jacket, over his ears and collar and the width of Q’s hands.

Checking for weapons or ear wigs or trackers. Checking for – gun calluses.

Q has never been more thankful that his aversion to guns means he only handles the Double-O weapons, and even then, not often enough that he would keep the marks permanently on his skin.

Q draws in a quiet, careful breath, and turns his mind to his own surveillance. They’re in a small foyer that would lead to an expansive room with wide ceiling to floor windows and a view that gives the penthouse suite its exorbitant commanding price. It’s a detail he barely catalogues at the back of his mind, because currently Q’s view is blocked by a gate of fine metal mesh. The entire foyer between the mesh gate and the front door is covered in a layer of metal. Q turns his head slightly; yes, even the side of the door he’s currently pushed against.

Faraday cage.

Finishing with the search, Jacobs takes a step back with Q’s phone in hand, the gun still aimed unerringly at Q’s stomach. He mercifully does not break it, even if it’s a burner unit Q swapped out especially for this. Q supposes he can thank the damned faraday cage for that, but there’s the itchy scratchy buzz of discomfort humming under his skin at being cut off, and the awareness that Riley might have promised to give him at least a few hours before sending field agents after him if Q falls off the radar but having it happen at all will make his second very, very irate.

Jacobs’ voice is a light baritone, nothing striking and overly neutral. “So, we finally have a face for the infamous Iota. You were short-lived, but memorable.” He pauses, and neither his expression nor his aim wavers. He might be a hacker first, but Q’s guess that the man is in intelligence looks to be on the mark. “There have been a number of upstarts over the years who have tried to claim the name, you know. I didn’t believe your claim until you replicated the Chimera codes. Even the useless portion of the coding you shared was unique enough to identify you.”

Q can’t place Jacobs’s accent – it’s European, but Jacobs changes the inflections of his pronunciation from word to word – and he doesn’t have the luxury of time nor the privacy of hiding behind his surveillance systems to figure it out. Instead, he lifts his chin to meet the man’s gaze. “I’ve taken up a number of other aliases over the years, but yes. I suppose Iota made the most impact on the dark web and hence our community.”

“And now?” Jacobs seems almost curious. “It’s been, what, almost a decade? You took back your alias just to contact me, and identified yourself in the same move.”

“Now, I want the information that you claim to have.” Q has a desperately urge to fidget, a physical way of releasing tension, but holds himself still. “I’ve learned that there is no shame in trading information. And you cracked MI5 – that is quite a feat.”

For a moment Q thinks that he got it wrong, that whatever leverages Jacob holds comes not from military intelligence but from another section of the government. Jacobs’ finger doesn’t twitch at all from the trigger. “Why do you think it’s the Security Service?”

It’s an educated guess, pure and simple. The tags and snapshots Jacobs leaked to prove the authenticity – and hence the value – of his information had top level United Kingdom designations all over them, and Q is sure the breach didn’t come from the Secret Service; he’d checked and rechecked MI6’s firewalls and internal files.

MI5, on the other hand – well, C flagged up Jacobs file to Q herself. It could be a coincidence or C could have her own agenda; Q knows which possibility he’d bet on. And if Jacobs is anything like Q, then he’d target the biggest and most fruitful challenges.

But Q can’t really say that, so he opts for another facet of the truth.

“Iota went offline for a reason. I escaped their attention after that, but I made it a priority to familiarize myself with their modes of operation since. And as much as I’d love a go at them, I had other priorities; business over pleasure, after all. But to have influence over them now – that would be lovely irony.” Q lets his mouth curl in a slight smile. “As for meeting you as Iota – well. Your information is in demand, and I rather hope to jump the line by appealing to you as a fellow expert in our chosen profession.”

Jacob studies him coolly, as if trying to glean his intentions from Q’s expression. Q stares right back, because he’s not a field agent, and he hates guns, but he’s not here as MI6’s Quartermaster or a civilian. His blood pressure is probably off the charts with how fast his heart is racing, but Q is here as an expert in cybersecurity _and_ cyberwarfare, and that’s someone he’s always been, no matter the aliases or identities.

There is no other thing that Q is more confident of.

Jacobs makes a quiet noise of assent. “You have my attention,” he says. “Let’s negotiate.”

Q takes another quiet breath as Jacob thumbs the safety on his gun and holsters it, feeling his shoulders unlock from their former tense, defensive position. His hands itch for his phone, but his mind is startling clear, focused like a microscope on a sample.

“Let’s,” he says.

 ---

There are areas in every city, no matter how advanced, that are utterly free of surveillance, and although Q’s focus is on foreign territories he is well familiar with London, knows dozens of routes that would get him from one side of the city to the other without crossing a camera or other technological forms of observation.

It’s late by the time he leaves Jacob’s place, but Q doesn’t make the mistake of thinking the growing darkness will hide him anymore than the glare of daylight would. He takes a detour into one of the higher end streets, crowded now that the bankers and the businessmen have been let loose, and ducks into a side alley equidistant from two surveillance cameras. He plugs headphones into the burner phone, which Jacobs gave back to him in good will but is no doubt bugged or hacked to within an inch of its life, and flips to a specific playlist. He listens to the _Danse Macabre_ in one ear and the whistling of the wind in the other, winding his way through the spaces between buildings and back alleys and trying his best to act like a brilliant hacker but ultimately benign individual when away from his computer systems, and not at all like he’s had an MI6 handler’s instructions drilled into his head.

Riley intercepts him near an abandoned townhouse, and Q lets himself be guided into the small but lovingly preserved garden, now running wild without a pruning hand. He doesn’t need Riley’s gesture to stay silent, and they watch the sensor in Riley’s hand light up as he passes it over Q, scanning for wire bugs or other trackers. In the end, Q ends up shucking his pea coat entirely and bundles it together the burner phone, now on its third rendition of the _Danse Macabre_ , into a bag. He pulls on his parka as his second disappears around the corner, dropping off the bag for an agent to pick up and make a circuitous route around London to throw Jacobs off the trail, before finally destroying the trackers somewhere innocuous. Q wonders if he’ll ever see his pea coat again.

Probably not.

Riley brought more than just Q’s parka; Q removes his contacts and slips on his glasses, and finally reaches for his phone. It’s in quit mode, but just having it in hand grounds Q enough that when Riley appears that he’s able to jump straight into speaking the moment Riley gives him an all-clear signal. Q isn’t a trained agent and for his safety Riley didn’t put any trackers on him, so all they have to go on is Q’s account of what happened, and the sooner he gets the details down, the less his memories will become distorted by the mind’s natural reimagining or his emotions.  

He ends with handing Riley the all-important memory card – honestly, Q should have passed that over first, before doing anything else – and then just stands there, his words exhausted and a faint fatigue clawing at the edges of his awareness. Barring a few clarifying questions Riley hadn’t interrupted him at all; now, his second closes the memory card in a protective case and tucks it into his breast pocket, buttoning it down for extra security.

Then, Riley simply says, “That was well done.”

Q blinks at him.

And all of a sudden, all the built-up adrenaline and suppressed emotions hit him with a vengeance.

“Give me a minute,” Q gets out, and staggers to the wall separating the garden from the street, his phone clenched in one hand, the other pressing flat against the rough brick. His breath starts out quick and frantic as he finally lets himself confront the reality that Jacobs could have shot him at any time. Then, he viciously cuts the thought off and focuses on the aftermath of their meeting – he’s out safely, with Riley and an unknown number of agents lurking about somewhere, and he has the critical information in his hands.

It’s the last thought that lets him pull his thoughts sharply into order. Jacobs encrypted the memory card – a sharp smile, a rare flash of emotion from the man, a quiet _an amusing challenge, but it should be a trifle for you, Iota_ – and Q will need all his wits about him to crack it.

He takes a final, rattling breath, the air cold in his lungs, and turns away from the wall. Riley hands him a bottle of water, and stares at him until Q cracks the seal, taking careful sips under Riley’s watchful eye.

“May I send someone after him now,” Riley says, his tone and expression mild but his eyes sparking with dangerous intent.

Q lowers the bottle. “No. No, we need to verify the files before we remove him from the board. If we catch him and it turns out we don’t have the right information, he’ll never talk.”

“Fine. But you’re not meeting him again,” Riley says.

Q stares at him in surprise. “I don’t plan to, but it may be necessary.”

“He aimed his gun at your stomach. Had you made the wrong move he would have shot you and let you bleed out in what is an excruciatingly slow and agonizing death. What do you think he would do if he found out about your real line of work?” Riley moves right along, fortunately, and doesn’t let Q dwell on the thought. “So no, I don’t want you anywhere near him again. Until we take him out, you’re under protective custody.”

Q continues staring at Riley, although the surprise tapers off into something that is only slightly uneasy, mostly resigned and all determined. “All right,” he says. “So we’re not going back to headquarters. And I suppose my flat is off-limits.”

Riley hefts a leather briefcase, and folds back the top flap enough so Q can see the dull gleam of a laptop within. “Let’s have supper,” he says, really meaning _there will be field rations at the safe house_. “And when you’ve finished clearing the memory card of traps or viruses or whatever else you think he can think of, we’ll reconsider headquarters for the decryption process.”

The emotion that washes over him startles Q, his grin feeling fierce on his face. It could be the mention of Q Branch, the heart of Q’s power and territory, and having a clear direction, their next course of action plotted out. Or perhaps it’s a side effect of all the disarray of the evening; Q feels a little wild and out of control, like he wants to burn his wings flying too close to the sun.

He knows better than to do that, but it’s amazing how a touch of invulnerability revitalizes the mind, in face of a challenge.

“I see you agree with that plan.” Riley hands him the briefcase, which Q takes easily, feeling infinitely happier with the laptop in hand and his phone in his pocket, disconnected though they both might be.

Riley doesn’t really need an answer, but Q nods anyway. “Lead on.”

 ---

It seems inevitable, somehow, that they would end up here: in M’s office, with papers laid out across the wide desk, M himself eagle-eyed and looking pressed together despite the late – or at this point, extremely early would be more accurate – hour.

It had taken a single phone call made with Q’s emergency code, routed through Moneypenny, and an insistence that the conversation needed to happen at MI6 headquarters. Even if Riley had been inclined to let Q leave the safety of Q Branch, Q himself isn’t entirely sure he wants to carry those documents anywhere in public, much less transfer them electronically. And the fewer people who are in the know, the better.

“‘The XX program,’” M recites out loud, leaning over his desk with a finger on the cover sheet. “An counter-espionage and deception operation. Or, to put it simply – a double-cross system.”

“A program like this would be extremely need-to-know only,” Riley says. “Turning foreign undercover agents so they work instead for us and maintaining their covers so we can spread misinformation to their home agencies would be very delicate work.”

“And you are sure this is spearheaded by the Security Service,” M says.

“I’m familiar with the designations MI5 uses, and Jacobs confirmed it as much.” Miraculously, Q’s voice comes out calm and steady. He’s running purely on willpower and caffeine now, and Riley must feel equally bedraggled, but here they are. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Q isn’t sure if the decryption process had stripped all formatting and other non-plaintext information from the files or whether the data was already in that state when Jacobs acquired them. It’s mostly a mess of factual details clumped together, but he and Riley made some attempts at sorting out the first few pages, and the details are clear enough once they knew which tags to look for: the agents’ names, some in code and some outright, and any number of identifying particulars – nationalities, work history, areas of expertise, physical descriptions, some even with addresses or personal relationships noted.

There are four profiles in front of M, plus a program abstract of some sort, but that’s not all; Q made the call after the first profile and grabbed what they had when M arrived back at headquarters, leaving an isolated system running in his private office to decode the rest of the data.

M flips through the pages once more, and then picks up his phone. “Set up a meeting with the director general,” he says, presumably to Moneypenny, and then hangs up. He turns his head slightly, and his focus is suddenly on Q with hawk-like intensity. “You obtained the XX program files from the hacker you’ve been investigating.”

“Yes,” Q says.

“And you decided that approaching this same hacker personally is a better approach than escalating the issue up to Tanner, or to me.”

Q is long used to having to stand up for himself, to assert his authority as an expert in his field and in the command role of the quartermaster, but M is one of the rare few who can shake his confidence. M doesn’t do it maliciously; there’s just something about the man that constantly catches Q off-guard, and in a role where sheer self-assurance is often the deciding factor in whether an agent buys into his directives or not, Q can’t quite bring himself to simply accept the few minutes it sometimes takes to recalibrate after a meeting with M.

He forces himself not to hesitate now. “We did not know the scope of the information he held, nor how serious the breach was. We didn’t even know who his target was before this. If Jacobs’s profile hadn’t been flagged up to me previously, I wouldn’t have paid much attention to his call for a buyer on the dark net. My priority, as always, is on the Secret Service’s operations.”

“And yet you made him an offer, an offer he clearly accepted. What did your records say the opening bid was – in the millions?” M leans back, predatorily casual. The slight increase of distance does nothing to change the power balance in the room; standing, M gets to stare down at anyone seated before his desk. “Where did you obtain the money from?”

Q pauses, thrown for a moment. “It wasn’t a monetary offer.”

M smiles grimly. “I’m quite pressed for time, Quartermaster, as I will be meeting with the Security Service regarding this matter within the hour.”

“I understand that monetary funds are used only in exceptional circumstances and would not be approved lightly.” It’s become much harder in recent years, because the last time MI6 rolled with such huge sums of money the agent in question had managed to lose the entire cache of it for a span of time, although the money was recovered in the end. Q isn’t fully aware of the specifics but he does know the British Treasury isn’t particularly fond of them even years after the fact. “I approached Jacobs as a fellow hacker, and the core of the exchange was in data.”

Q expects M to pursue that line, to dig ceaselessly until he knows every little detail regarding the exchange, but M takes an entirely different route.

“So in essence, you ignored the chain of command, risked yourself as one of Q Branch’s greatest assets to confront an unknown but dangerous individual, with no back up or indication of the threat in the event you are killed or removed from contact.”

Q’s eyes flick to Riley. “My second-in-command was aware of the situation, and he acted as my handler both before and after I meet with Jacobs.”

M follows his glance with pinpoint precision, his attention now on Riley. “I thought you were supposed to be a mitigating influence, to rein him in if need be.”

Riley stares coolly back. “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood the way things work in Q Branch, sir.” There’s a rare edge in Riley’s voice, the shortest possible pause before the ‘sir’ that is entirely different from when Riley uses the title with Q. “He is our Quartermaster. We will go where Q leads us.”

Sometimes MI6 forgets that Riley had kept Q Branch up and functioning for years when there was no active Quartermaster. Q joined the Secret Service during that era and received much more freedom to run his own projects than he would have otherwise, but even after Q took the command position it’s always been clear to all their subordinates just what their positions are: Q is the catalyst, the creative force that drives and inspires Q Branch, and Riley is the methodical engineer who keeps the entire system running smoothly. Both are absolutely integral to Q Branch’s current success.

M, who took his position much later and deals mainly with Q as the division leader, might not have realized that, but he certainly does now.

“Do you require further information from me at this time?” Q says into the silence, his voice cutting through the tension in the room. Q is still Q Branch’s leader, and he’ll protect his division to the utmost of his abilities. Riley might not need the assistance, but if he wants it, he has it.

“Yes,” M says, sounding utterly unperturbed, although his eyes are narrowed. He taps one finger on the XX agent documents. “Get me the rest of these profiles.”

Q meets Riley’s gaze squarely this time – there’s no point in subtlety with someone as sharp as M – and Riley gives an imperceptible nod. Q turns back to M.

“Riley has access to my office, and he will check on and compile what files have been decoded in the past hour.”

“Take Moneypenny with you,” M says, although his eyes are still trained on Q. “Dismissed.”

Riley stands immediately, a fluid movement that contains no hesitation. He inclines his head towards M in acknowledgement, but his deferential “sir” is directed to Q and Q alone.

“Q Branch is yours,” Q says quietly, and trusts that Riley knows exactly what to do.

Riley nods once, and then turns on his heels, closing the door behind him. It leaves Q feeling a little claustrophobic, which is ironic considering the amount of time he spends holed up somewhere with his computer systems.

Thankfully, M chooses to sit down this time, his leather armchair creaking softly with his movements. Unlike Q, who is capable of sitting for hours on end in the same position while coding but ends up restless any other time, M appears perfectly at ease.

“The data you gave Jacobs,” M says. “Tell me what you gave up to lure a hacker back into the country whose military intelligence he stole from.”

Q bites the inside of his cheek. “I made an offer he could not decline, an appeal directly to his true area of interest. In return for the double-cross list, I gave him the core source code for the software program that the dark web knows as the Chimera.”

M simply studies him for a long minute, the silence stretching out between them until Q desperately wants to clear his throat or shift in his seat just to distract himself from it.

“I read about the Chimera program in your file,” M says at last. “It did not mention that you created it.”

Q is tired enough that he won’t risk speaking more than he has to – the last thing Q needs is to end up swearing or otherwise making a fool of himself – but there’s an unspoken question there that M’s pointed stare tells Q he needs to answer.

“Yes, I coded it. No one else has ever had access to the full source code.”

“Until a few hours ago, that is,” M says with an easy smile.

Q’s file is likely as heavily redacted as the Double-Os’ are; Q doesn’t know what his say, whether they begin with when he formally joined MI6 or if they include all the circumstances that led to his recruitment. Iota is necessarily in there, but Q is surprised that the details of the Chimera code isn’t. Picking fights with groups he didn’t believe were extremists wasn’t discreet at all; Q had been bright as a teenager, but quite blindsided to the bigger picture at that point of his life.

Q has learned better now, a decade later.

“I’ve left loopholes in the code. The program will need to be fully debugged for it to function. It’s a test of Jacobs’s skill, and he would have expected it. There are layers to the Chimera – it would take even me several days to sort it out. I’ve also developed a kill code for the Chimera. Riley has a copy of it.” Q gives in to the urge, and lets his fingers tap nonsensically against the arms of his chair. “It would cause quite a few glitches in a few specific networks we deploy it on, as well as depending on how and where Jacobs has used it, but it would eliminate the program. I coded in an inconspicuous but open vulnerability in the Chimera for this.”

“What about duplication?”

Q shakes his head. “Duplicating the code would only devalue it. Jacobs would do better selling his services using the software instead.” He hesitates, and then adds, “Also, Jacobs strikes me as the type to covet the things he finds fascinating or ground-breaking. Practicality might push him to do otherwise, but his first instinct would be to keep the Chimera’s secrets to himself.”

“Like a collector with a stolen masterpiece. Good,” M says, and Q lets out a quiet breath. “It will make the discussion with the Security Service’s director general that much easier to know that we’ve tied up loose ends on our side.”

“Do you need me to be available?” Q asks.

M pulls back his sleeve to check for the time, and then sweeps all the XX program files into a neat stack. “Concentrate on decoding the rest of Jacob’s package. And keep him contained, technologically, especially if he uses your Chimera program.” He glances up, his eyes piercing. “Otherwise, both the Security Service and the Secret Service have agents to do the hands-on work. You aren’t needed for that part of the operation.”

It’s the closest thing to a direct rebuke that M has expressed the entire meeting, and Q dips his head, acknowledging it. “I will return to my office, and make arrangements to forward our progress directly to Moneypenny.” He stands, hands automatically checking his jacket pocket for his phone, and straightens when he confirms that it’s there.

“It’s a shame, really, that 007 isn’t here.”

Q freezes, right in the middle of a step, and ends up almost tripping over himself, his thoughts and his reflexes honey-slow with the fatigue of a long night on top of a previously stressful afternoon. He turns to look at M, caught entirely off-guard, because Q hadn’t thought once about Bond since he set his mind on meeting Jacobs. He’d immersed himself in the persona of Iota, and an opportunistic hacker had no reason at all to worry about a secret agent’s wellbeing. Then, as Quartermaster, he’d been sharply focused on the potential threat Jacobs’s information represented, and frankly, Q has dozens of concerns more pressing than one wayward Double-O with a penchant for trouble.

It’s been more than thirty-six hours since he last sent the text, the one and only message with actual words in it. He wonders if it would make Bond worry, the silence, because in hindsight the uncharacteristic message had sounded terribly like Q was doing something overly dangerous and needed the promise to bring _himself_ back in one piece.

But Bond hadn’t responded to any of his texts so it’s a moot point, really.

“Sir?” he says out loud, falling back on formality as the safest course.

“He would have been the perfect candidate to send out against Jacobs. And to rile up the Security Service.”

There’s a gleam of satisfaction in M’s eyes. If interdepartmental politics is perilous for Q, then they must be positively cutthroat at M’s level. 

“Nevertheless, this will take special handling. The XX agents may not be British citizens, but they are still undercover agents and valuable resources for the nation. The last thing we need is another slip-up of this nature. We had plenty of those with the Silva incident.”

Q doesn’t flinch at the name, not any more.

“I will keep a close eye on Jacobs,” is all Q says, feeling wan and stretched-thin and ferociously determined not to let it show, and lets himself out of M’s office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The real world XX program](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Double-Cross_System) (oh, I smiled when I realized how perfectly the name meshed with the whole Double-O system. Also, puns).
> 
> Yes, I promise that Bond is actually in this fic.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q doesn’t need to check to know that the Q Branch private chat system is rife with speculation.

Q doesn’t need to check to know that the Q Branch private chat system is rife with speculation.

It’s not because of the XX program files, of course; that entire operation has been kept under such tight wraps that even Q has no idea what actions have been taken. His correspondence with M, via Moneypenny, is entirely one-way, and his natural curiosity on the situation isn’t enough to override his sense of propriety. There is giving in to his nature and digging up files that aren’t entirely under Q’s purview, and there’s sheer arrogant stupidity by looking in places that he’s been specifically warned off from.

No, it has everything to do with the fact that when he’d finally staggered out of his office mid-morning after the critical meeting with M, there had been a senior MI6 agent waiting to escort him back to his flat. He considered protesting for a long minute – Q greatly values his privacy, and wouldn’t having someone tailing him draw even more attention? – but he had sent Riley home an hour earlier and there were already far too many curious stares from the Communications team. In the end, Q made the executive decision to trust that the agent knew how to do his job and to concentrate on his own field of expertise, which decidedly did _not_ include safeguarding targeted individuals, and just walked out of headquarters like exhaustion and paranoia weren’t trying to sink their teeth into him.

Now, a day and thirteen solid hours of sleep later, Q can only be glad that the agent is discreet enough to peel away the moment they step into headquarters; the last thing he needs is for the general rumour mill to catch wind of this.

Q isn’t at all tempted to check the chat system as he makes his winding way down to the main observation lab, although he does feel a spike of satisfaction when he steps through the glass doors and there’s a moment of startlement as the team notice his presence. They have surveillance on him in that same endearing but rather unsettling way they try so hard to silently divert his workflow to help him, but London is Q’s home territory and Q Branch the heart of Q’s domain, and it is simplicity itself to override the feeds – besides, Q knows they only really start watching once he sets foot inside Q Branch spaces. 

“Hello, team,” Q says to their chagrined faces, and then transfers his stare to Riley, who looks on placidly, entirely unsurprised. “I don’t think our schedules normally overlap this much.”

“They don’t,” Riley says. “Since you’re technically on leave today.”

Q settles down at his workstation with a sigh, because that’s true, but it’s not like he can enjoy any time off with Jacobs still at large and an agent lurking around his neighbourhood.

“I could cancel that leave, but I have a surfeit of them anyway. I’ll take it easy.”

“Will you? Considering the last few eventful days, I thought it best to keep an eye on you. Mitigating influence and all that.”  

That statement as well as the good humour beneath the words makes a few of his underlings look up in curiosity. Q just shakes his head, but there’s a slight smile tugging at his lips, threatening to emerge. Things must be going smoothly for Riley to be in a teasing mood, and it’s evident that M’s remarks don’t register much on Riley’s radar. Q Branch works closely with and for the rest of MI6, but it does have a tendency to set its own priorities.

It’s likely why Q finds such enjoyment leading them.

“Any updates?” Q says in a softer voice, even as he’s pulling up the files.

“I’ve just been here the one hour. No news from above,” Riley says. “Omen kept an eye on our project while we were both off-duty; I checked in with him before he left, and it’s been quiet. You could afford to take today off, sir.”

It isn’t that Riley doesn’t trust him to know his own limits, or that he’s implying that Q is unfit for work at this time. It’s a reminder that the storm has yet to hit, that until M works things out with MI5 and they choose to act that Jacobs is still operating freely, with both the XX program files and the Chimera source codes sitting in the palm of his hands like Pandora’s box: contained for now, but devastating when cracked open. They’re in the lull between the waves with little knowledge of what’s lurking on the horizon; Q knows it’s foolhardy to wear himself down now with tasks he can safely pass over to any of the Comms team.

But this time, Q is letting his emotions override logic; he’d rather sit here and endure the rustling cacophony of noise despite the mild tension headache still dogging him, and he’d rather spend hours staring at his computers running a long and continuous and unending scan for any signs of the Chimera. In this instance, no news is absolutely good news – but Q finds it difficult to accept it unless he’s here in person, running the scans personally. He’d been distracted the entire morning, all through breakfast and lunch and some chores he’d been neglecting until he made the decision to head back to headquarters.

“I’m fine here, Riley,” is all Q says out loud, and his second just looks at him for a long moment before letting it go, turning back to his stack of paperwork from BioSci.

Q busies himself with reading over Omen’s concise report, on both the Jacobs situation – it ends with the night Jacobs took down his post, after which Q put the Jacobs team on stand down – and the series of scans Riley had tasked him with overseeing. Nothing jumps out at him, no surprises that Q isn’t already aware of, and so it doesn’t take him long to notice the feel of eyes trained on him.

Of course, his ever curious underlings. The other Q Branch sections must be raising an absolute raucous in the chat system for the Comms team to forgo subtlety and jump straight to fishing for answers.

“Comms team,” Q says, pre-empting their attempt to casually broach a topic. “You’re all quite restless today.”

He lets his fingers dart across his keyboard as he waits for them to decide who to push out as their speaker; it’s the kind of coding that comes so naturally that he can have a conversation at the same time.

“Sir, we were wondering who Chi and Zeta are.”

It’s Liam who speaks up; Q doesn’t even have to look away from his screen. The more senior members of the Comms team have obviously washed their hands of this – the younger Q Branch staff are more than happy to take the reins, as it is – and Corrine’s side of the Comms team are more likely to go for a direct approach. Liam and his unit, on the other hand, are sleuths, preferring to gather all the facts before pouncing.

“And where did you come across those names?” Q says.

“From Omen’s assignment,” Liam replies promptly, without a hint of guilt. “He was using those two aliases to scan through the dark web while running a search program of some sort. We couldn’t find out much about them; their trail is quite cold.”

“I would be worried if it was otherwise.” Q moves his addendum search code to the background and goes prowling on the dark web instead. Omen is quite thorough, but Q knows all about minute traces that even covering a trail leaves behind, and obfuscates those signs as well. “Chi was my primary alias when I first joined Q Branch, which I used to keep abreast of the dark web’s trends; I created Zeta to counter my Chi alias when the encryption-decryption team was merged into the larger Communications section, after which I focused mainly on developing many of my security protocols.” He looks up from his screen, and smiles at his team. “I let Omen use the aliases since they’re well established and also well obscured. It’s reassuring to know no one managed to link them back to me.”

He can almost feel his team turning the new facts over in their heads. For all that Q has been with Q Branch for years now, he has always worked as independently as he was allowed to be. Some of the senior Communications staff remembers him, but only Riley – and probably Tanner, who oversees all personnel who have been recruited in unconventional ways – has any real knowledge of who Q is and what he was up to when he first came to Q Branch and before he became Quartermaster. After all, the first time Q stepped fully into the spotlight was during the emergency that led to his eventual promotion.

“Any further questions?” Q says into the uncustomary hush, during which he’s quite sure at least three of his underlings are busy reporting it all to the chat.

“Yes.” It’s Corrine this time. “What happened with Jacobs?”

Q doesn’t need to answer; Riley cuts in smoothly with, “Classified.”

Someone in one of the further workstations actually groans out loud, although he’s quickly shushed.

Riley turns to spread out his reports  out further; the proposals from the Biological and Molecular Science section are ever complicated, but they really don’t require the level of scrutiny that Riley is directing at them, nor do they usually warrant the slight smile of amusement.

“Now that I’ve indulged five minutes of your curiosity, do concentrate on your work,” Q says, before someone else decides to ask about Q’s field agent bodyguard from two days ago. A quiet murmur goes through his team, but they settle back well enough, Q’s answers giving them something to mull over for at least another couple of hours. Q turns back to his keyboard with renewed vigour, and pulls up his search program to add the new parameters to it, tweaking it carefully because Jacobs is skilled and not to be underestimated.

Some twenty minutes later, the doors of the main observation lab slide open and James Bond strides through, looking about with a dispassionate air. "I see Q Branch is busy as usual."

The thing is – the Double-Os don’t actually interact much with the rest of MI6; that’s the whole point of them, to have an elite unit of field agents that works under the radar on covert operations so critical that the rest of the world can’t know about them. Q and Riley are some of the few with the security clearance necessary to work with the Double-Os, and so the rest of the observation lab barely misses a beat, well used to the unpredictable comings and goings of MI6’s best open secret.

Q, on the other hand, feels like he’s had a bad jolt to the system; his eyes flick automatically to his secondary screen – it’s silly and illogical, that he needs to verify with technology that he isn’t having a hallucination – but there Bond is, suited and put together amongst the more informal Q Branch staff, and when Q looks back up, he notes that beyond the general weariness and rough edges that comes from working out in the field, Bond looks—fine. All limbs accounted for, no visible wounds, eyes alert.

He's holding a metallic attaché case; one of Q's.

Stopping in the middle of tweaking a continuously running program can be disastrous. It’s the only thing that drags Q’s attention back to his keyboard, to fix his current line of code before he closes the window entirely. Riley should have spoken up by now, his second ever quick to step in when Q is occupied, but Riley stays silent, so Q removes his hands from the keyboard and presses them flat against his desk before raising his head and meeting Bond’s gaze.

"007," he says.

“I’m here to return your equipment.”

Q’s eyes drop to the metallic case, and he nods. “I can see that.” He gestures at the central benchtops, the one Q Branch staff end up using when they don’t want to disturb their own workstations or when visitors sit in on various operations, and forces himself to join Bond there; Bond sets the case down, smooth and easy and it’s such a facsimile of normality that a part of Q feels like screaming. “It’s been quite some time. Where have you been?”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Bond says, with complete seriousness, “Classified.”

The word, spoken by Riley with humour earlier, now drops into the conversation like a heavy stone. It’s not a deflection, the way 0011 might have meant it, flippantly teasing in order to protect his vulnerabilities, or even the best representation of the truth, the way 004 tells no lies but will never speak the truth in full. It’s a loaded word, and for once Q is at a lost for how to interpret it.

“You were on duty,” he says, because that much is obvious. “And yet somehow you weren’t able to check in with anyone here at headquarters even once since you exploded yourself off the line.”

“When you put it in such terms, then you’re right. I didn’t.”

Q’s hands reach out for the attaché case, running on autopilot; he flicks the case open and studies the expected gaps where cartridges and flares have been spent, where Bond has lost or damaged parts of his kit, but there’s no way he can ignore the earpiece, the sleek black phone that lights up when Q swipes his finger across the screen.

"Were you incapacitated? Would communication have put Q Branch or MI6 in greater danger than I can handle?"

Bond flashes him a heart-breaking smile of pride. "No. You could have handled it."

“I see.” Q begins removing Bond’s kit, piece by piece, laying them out on the worktable for scrutiny. The earpiece looks fine, although the phone spots several scratches. There’s the gun, the code scrambler, the depleted medical case to go back to Medical, the—

His phone buzzes an alert, low and insistent, and Q glances back at his workstation.

A hit.

Has Jacobs managed to debug the Chimera code this quickly?

Q can’t concentrate.

“Your equipment checks out. Thank you for bringing them here directly,” Q says, and snaps the case shut. He gives himself a moment to toy with the phone. The registry and message inbox are all empty – but of course. Q programmed it that way, additional safeguards for the Double-Os, that the messages would erase themselves if unread. He shuts the phone down.

Bond is still standing in front of the workbench.

“I got your messages,” he says, and Q goes very, very still.

“Did you?”

Bond shrugs, an elegant movement for so casual a gesture. "I might have missed a few while mid-duty."

Q doesn’t exhibit the usual signs of tension – no sweaty palms, no darting glances, no flighty licking at his lips. He only needs to occupy his hands and he does absolutely fine. Sometimes, he only notices he’s tense when he begins fiddling with pencils and phones and cables, when he can’t stop typing at his keyboard.

His fingers are absolutely itching for his laptop right now. “How many did you receive?”

"More than I expected." A beat. "Twelve, at last count."

There’s a sudden burst of frenetic emotion in Q’s chest, overwhelming and unidentifiable, before it crystalizes, sharp and hard and utterly flawless under pressure, leaving Q’s hands steady. It still takes Q a long moment to realize the lab is pin-drop silent and that his eyes are starting to sting; he hasn’t blinked, his eyes locked with Bond’s. A movement in the periphery of his vision catches Q’s attention and his gaze cuts to the left with razor sharp precision, halting Corrine in the middle of getting to her feet, her sudden surprise not quite masking the way her mouth had been turned down in worry just a moment ago.

So Bond had received the majority of his blank text messages. Q would wonder if the last one made any difference, but he’s under no illusions; Bond’s answer, in hindsight, had been with his silence.

"It looks like everything is in order. You’re dismissed, 007," Q says. He pushes away from the worktop table and heads straight for his own workstation.  

Bond's hand closes around his wrist the moment Q passes close enough. It's such a quick, fluid movement – the rest of Bond's body doesn't even twitch – that for a second Q doesn't realize what's happened, pulling and fighting against the grasp as instinct overrides common sense and training.

It's a moment of déjà vu – same hand, similar hold, a charged conversation – but unlike the second time they met in front of _The Fighting Temeraire_ , Bond tightens his grip instead of letting go, his fingers five bands around Q's wrist.

Q narrows his eyes, and then he twists, wrenching his arm back. It _hurts_ , but much less than if he had broken his wrist; Bond lets him go at the very last possible second because Bond always tries to protect the people he cares for from physical harm, although he's adept at dealing out lethal, emotional ones.

Q looks up and gives a sharp shake of his head just in time to stop his team; there are more than a few concerned faces now, although they all settle back to their work, disciplined even under metaphorical firefight. He’s garnered that loyalty from them, that they would subvert their natural curiosity out of respect for him and still heed his directives against their best judgment.

Cradling his injured hand briefly in his other, Q stares at the infuriating walking paradox standing hale and whole in front of him, before letting his hands fall to his side. He doesn't have a name for the maelstrom of emotions threatening to break free from their current crystalline cage - frustration, exhaustion, shock, no small amount of anger and under it all a distinct feeling of relief, that his Double-O is alive and unharmed.

He notes, in a distant corner of his mind, that yes, he still considers Bond one of his own, despite it all.

Bond's eyes are piercingly blue, bottomless and fathomless. "It might have taken me some time, but I did bring myself back in one piece."

 _Goddamn the man_.

Q allows his gaze to drift to the right, staring over and beyond Bond's shoulder. He reaches out behind him with his uninjured hand, fingers seeking out his own earpiece unerringly and closing around them in a vise-like grip.

“Moneypenny,” Q says, and a flicker of emotion sweeps over Bond’s face. “I do believe you have a formerly missing-in-action Double-O agent to deal with.”

He walks right out of Q Branch after that, only veering from his path once to let Moneypenny pass by.

\---

Q’s mind, used to intricately laid out sets of directives, of cause and effect, pieces parts of the puzzle together whether he wants it to or not.  

It was clearly a mission, sanctioned at the top level if Bond’s easy entry back into headquarters is any indication, and extremely important and sensitive if both Tanner and Moneypenny aren’t in the know about it. By all indications Bond had done the job well, to return back relatively unscathed and with most of his equipment intact – efficient and professional, as befitting an agent with a Double-O designation.

Compartmentalization is key. He’s on duty and Q doesn’t shirk his duty, not for anything short of grievous injury, and Q is already irritated enough with himself for the moment of weakness, leaving Q Branch like that. His wrist throbs, the pain seeming to intensify with each beat of his heart, but Q has stressed and sprained his hands while sparring with his quarterstaff; he can skip the trip to Medical and head straight back to work. He pairs up the earpiece with his phone as he takes the fastest route to his office, hooking the device over his ear as the secure connection goes through, synching with the main observation lab workstations.

Efficient and professional and completely impersonal – Q can do those.

"Q Branch."

"Sir?" several of his team chorus amidst other wordless noises of surprise, and then Riley's crisp voice cuts through the babble.

"Q. I assume you will continue your operations remotely."

"Yes," Q says. He reaches his office and lifts his hand to scan his palmprint and fingerprints rather than punch in his code. The overhead lights flick on when he steps over the threshold; Q turns them all off as he wakes up his systems, the faint indicators the only illumination until Q turns on his desk lamp, a focused wash of warm light. He settles into his chair. "Has the distraction left yet?"

There is a moment of silence. "No. But I believe Moneypenny is working on that."

His reflection in the darkened surface of his monitor screen is nebulous, his cheekbones and the edges of his jaw highlighted by the glow of the lamp, starkly pale, his eyes under their glasses blurred shadows. Q glances away as he flicks on the screen, to let his eyes adjust to the sudden brightness.

"Get Tanner to collect him, or assist Moneypenny if you can. Otherwise, Q Branch, continue as you were.”

"Q."

The beauty of working in his own private space is that everything is set up to his exact specifications; an injured wrist hardly slows Q down here. He can let his eyes fall shut for the few moments it takes his systems pull up all the relevant windows. Riley’s tone hasn’t changed, but Q knows immediately that the man is on a private line, the transition silent and seamless.

“After, Riley. I’ll deal with things later. Jacobs is the priority.”

There is a pause. “Agreed,” Riley says, and then Q’s phone buzzes.

His phone, when he digs it out from his cardigan pocket, says _see to your wrist before you deal with the Chimera situation_ , and Q stares at it, perplexed, until he realizes – Q might be in the privacy of his office, but Riley isn’t; anyone and everyone standing in Q Branch’s observation lab can hear his side of the conversation.

Q should say something to the Communications team, but he’s no longer sure what line he’s on, public or private, so he just shuts down the connection entirely. He sits there for a long moment, staring at the windows on his monitor, at the alerts highlighted; his injured hand shakes minutely where it lays in his lap. He wants a mug of tea, badly; the caffeine won’t help at all but he wants the warmth, the inherent comfort of holding the mug in his hands and breathing in the scent of the tea.

But he doesn’t have time for tea. Compartmentalization and prioritization – they’re all keys to being professional and efficient, after all.

The alerts are urgent but not critical, his hand hurts but is still functional, but Riley won’t wait for long, Q finally decides.

He drags out the medical kit and snaps a photo of it for Riley while rummaging in it for bandages and painkillers, and chases down the latter with water.

 ---

The lights at the firing range are blindingly bright and the targets dark slashes of contrast that Q chooses to reposition closer for himself. The sun has set outside but in the security of the underground bunkers time feels inconsequential. It matches Q’s mood; it feels like days has gone by, for all that it’s only been a few hours since the situation at the observation lab.

The earlier hit wasn’t the Chimera, thankfully – or at least not the full version of it. Jacobs had deployed a small part of it, marrying several minor programs and throwing it into the National Library’s image database; if Q doesn’t know the Chimera’s code so intimately he would never have identified it as such. Jacobs is testing the waters, starting small and innocuous even while he continues to decipher the more sophisticated and dangerous portions of the Chimera. Some National Library technicians are going to have a very miserable few days when they log back into their database, but for now, at least, the United Kingdom is quite safe.

Q can even counter the pseudo-Chimera in his capacity as a cybersecurity expert in the government’s employ, although not to the full extent that he would have taken as the Quartermaster against a threat; he needs to let some time go by to simulate how a common IT personnel might flag up the foreign program. He could have stayed in his office longer to monitor Jacobs’s movements, but with his search programs fully automated and the alert system clearly working, hiding there seems much more like an excuse to brood and much less of necessity, so Q resets his alerts and schedules a reminder for two hours later, and turns his attention to further undesirable duties.

He discards his cardigan, rolls up his shirt sleeves, slips on the soundproof earmuffs, and then picks up the gun.

Q hates guns.

He hates the way they kick back in his hands, sending a shock down his arm that he has to correct for, entirely different from the way his quarterstaff melds into his hands and becomes an extension of himself after a hard fight. There’s a reason Q eschews the flashy motion manipulation functions or the fancier virtual reality systems. Although he’s adept at both he prefers the physicality of a keyboard under his hands and the nuances of the code language, and when his hands are numb from recoil he loses that connection.

Guns are brute force, stupidly dangerous in the hands of even the most senseless idiot and there’s no reasonable way to fight back against a bullet; with guns there are no encryptions to crack or firewalls to build and yet, ironically, Q is absurdly good at modifying them.

And so here he is at the firing range conducting his least favourite test with a weapon he hates and using the gun assigned to an Double-O agent he’d love very much to hate and Q knows he can’t quantify human behaviour with equations but it certainly feels like everything is adding up to the conclusion that he must be a masochist.

Or, as Q prefers to interpret it, that he’s stupidly devoted to his job.

And then there’s the fact that his hands fit around the Walther PPK/S far too comfortably, the shock of violence each time he squeezes the trigger doing wonders to empty his mind. He can’t _think_ when he’s holding a gun, and that’s another reason why he normally hates the experience.

Breathe in, aim, trigger on the breath out, follow through with the kickback, repeat, repeat, repeat until he has to switch out the spent magazine for a full one. Q takes his time with this, counting his breaths so he doesn’t lose the rhythm.

Eyes up. Focus only on the target. Catalogue the subtle hitches each time he fires, if any; parts that might need replacing, substitution for better materials, perhaps, recalibration of the palm-print system now that he’s taken the gun apart for cleaning and maintenance. Q fires and fires, letting his mind immerse itself in the details of it all, and doesn’t stop until he finishes the second magazine.

When he looks up, Bond is watching him from behind the bulletproof glass of the observation room.

Q engages the safety on the gun. His wrist still hurts, he remembers abruptly, as adrenaline fades and the pain seeps back in.

Bond ghosts into the range, the heavy doors swinging close behind him. He walks as if he doesn’t have a care in the world, and yet. Q understands the theory behind hiding in plain sight – he does it himself, with his wide glasses and unruly hair and the way he dresses – but he can’t figure out how anyone can look at Bond and think him a common parking attendant or innocuous commuter or anything remotely normal, he’s so goddamned flashy all the time.

Q wants to rattle that smooth, suave façade, strip the man down to his base instincts and betray his secrets. He wants to do all of this because all titles aside he’s an MI6 personnel directly recruited from the masses and he too is damaged and vindictive enough to want to lash back when someone shatters his equilibrium so very deliberately.

Q doesn’t kill in his line of duty, but he certainly has the capacity for destruction. He disengages the safety, imagining the distinct _click_ in the quiet of the range, and raises the gun to his head, the barrel disappearing into the dark hair above his earmuffs.

Bond is on him in a flash, hands closing paralyzingly over his wrist, tackling his arm up and out, his other hand wrestling the gun from Q’s grip.

“It’s blank, you know,” Q says, his voice echoing in his head from the soundproof earmuffs. “I haven’t switched in a fresh magazine yet.”

Bond’s pupils are blown wide with adrenaline, and he just looks at Q, his grip tight but painless on Q's wrist, somehow avoiding the darkening bruises from earlier that day.

Q stares back dispassionately.

Bond drops his hand, although he doesn’t step back, still hovering close and boxing Q in between his body and the side table. He engages the safety on the gun, even pulls out the trigger momentarily, and checks the chamber and cartridge frame thoroughly. Then he puts everything back together, including a fresh magazine, throwing a furtive, sideway look at Q as he steps into the next column. 

No double-handed grip or breaths of preparation for the Double-O; Bond stands there with gun in hand, almost relaxed, and transitions from stillness to action with no pause or consideration in between. The palm-print sensor kicks into action immediately, reading Bond’s prints without any delay and the firing range resounds with the continuous crack of fire report. Q doesn’t hear them through his earmuffs, but he can easily imagine it. 

They’re not at the MI6 shooting range; there is no range master to check the results or call an all clear. This is the Q Branch testing range, accessible only to the Q Branch gun specialists and select senior staff including Q himself, and so he dutifully raises the sniper’s scope to check Bond’s target – perfect bullseyes, of course.

Bond steps back to Q’s side, keeping the gun pointed down and away, although Q can see he’s pulled the trigger out entirely again. “You’re the override,” he says, and Q reads the words off his lips.

Of course he is. Someone needs to handle and maintain the Double-Os’ equipment besides the agents themselves, and Q is the main person for the Double-Os. “Yes.”

“You hate guns.”

They’re standing close enough that Q wonders why he’s stating the most obvious facts. “I do.”

Bond holsters the gun and reaches over to pull the earmuffs away from Q’s ears. Not one of his fingers brush against Q’s hair or skin. “It’s in good shape. So I’ll take it with me.” He tosses the earmuffs on the side table and collects the remaining cartridges, then presses something cold into Q’s hands. “Good evening, Q.”

“Good evening,” Q says automatically, then glances down at his hands.

A cold pack, wrapped in soft, thin flannel.

Q looks up, but Bond is already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that Bond's return is suitably satisfying after his long absence :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q can say nothing against her statements. It’s right there in the agency’s official name, Secret Intelligence Service. All MI6 personnel employ a persona in some form and their operations are wrapped in mystery and Q may be the quartermaster, but there are plenty of things that don’t fall under his purview. It’s part of the job, the secrets and the lies.
> 
> Silence, then, is what the agents employ when they don’t want to use the latter to protect the former.

One of the perks of being the leader of an entire division is that it is absolutely necessary for Q to pick and choose the operations he focuses on, and delegate the rest to the respective Q Branch sections. He disappears to work on independent projects and other high priority assignments frequently enough that Q Branch runs smoothly in his absence; besides, Q can’t help checking in on the various sections every so often, even if it’s just for fifteen minutes at the beginning and end of his shifts.

Q puts his surveillance skills to good use and times his visits at odd enough intervals that no one can figure out a pattern and ambush him. Weapons and Engineering alternately tease and cluck at him for injuring his wrist, Inventories echo his indignation over yet more destroyed equipment, _honestly_ , _the field agents must think MI6’s budgets are unlimited_ , and BioSci, quite firmly Riley’s domain, is an oasis of calm and concentration.

The Comms team, on the other hand, is mostly tranquil, but it is the deceptive quiet ahead of a disaster or a war, when the wildlife has fled or gone into hiding in preparation for the ensuing pandemonium. They haven’t breathed a word to the other sections, but the store of baked goods at his workstation is getting quite out of hand, and it’s why Q ends up bringing a tin of biscuits and some freshly baked scones with him when he goes to meet Moneypenny.  

“Is this efficiency or a subtle retribution?” Q asks when he finally finds her in one of the little known office rooms on the Accounts and Human Resources floor – the one very few personnel have access to, because they handle what little Double-O records that exist.

“Who is to say it isn’t both?” Moneypenny says, barely looking up from her laptop. "The longer an MIA status stays on his file, the more complications I’ll have putting him back on the roster.”

The cables attached to the laptop are a tangled mass of chaos, and Q resists the urge to sort it out. Instead, he takes the chair left open for him, sitting at a right-angle to the docking station. “That’s hardly retribution.”

She smiles, and it comes with the slightest baring of teeth. “He might have been on active duty the past several weeks, but that doesn’t show up on my records. The sooner he goes back on official duty, the less chances there are for him to get into even more trouble.”

“You know the Double-Os hate going on leave; you’re doing him a favour.”

Moneypenny’s eyes flick up, catching Q’s gaze for a brief but pointed moment. “Not when he clearly wants to stay close to headquarters at this time.”

Wisely, Q lets that remark go unanswered and unchallenged.

“And you.” Moneypenny’s voice barely changes, but the clatter of keys grows louder, like she’s hitting them with slightly more force than usual. “I have not even begun with that reckless stunt you pulled with Jacobs. We’re an entire agency consisting mainly of trained field agents, and you decide to risk yourself.”

Q taps his fingertips lightly against the biscuit tin. “It did the job, didn’t it? Getting the XX program files was worth the risk.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she retorts, “because I don’t know the details. M is keeping this tightly under wraps. I only know as much as what you’ve forwarded to him through me, together with the fact that your second requested a security detail for you.” She sighs, and lets her hands drift to a stop over her keyboard. “But if James gets to get away with all the things he does in the name of duty, I suppose I have to let you get away with this one as well. I know you had Riley and his extensive network of contacts, but please take care. Q Branch might riot if something happened to you.”

“Riley would step in and keep things running smoothly,” Q says, because he’s a realist and in their line of work contingency plans are a matter of course. Q won’t leave his division without proper leadership if he’s ever taken out of commission – they have a plan for a reshuffling of the top Q Branch section leaders to cover any gaps in the interim without swamping Riley with the majority of the responsibility yet again. Riley would be quite displeased with him if it ever happens, but Q Branch operations won’t be affected in any significant way.

Moneypenny just looks at him, her eyes brooking no nonsense. “And he does very well indeed. But Riley chose not to become the quartermaster for reasons of his own, and we’ve all benefitted from your leadership in Q Branch. Just because MI6 thrives in difficult circumstances and is fully capable of adapting to constant change doesn’t mean that we don’t like a little stability.” Her expression softens, and she reaches out to take the biscuit tin, popping the lid open with a light hand. “You’ve become a constant in MI6, Q. We’d like to keep it that way for a good long while.”

Q hasn’t had much opportunity to work closely with Moneypenny, although since she became M’s secretary they’ve developed an easy camaraderie that is a result of mutually supporting the topmost level of MI6 and their elite agents. But there’s a familiarity between them now that comes from shared experience and Moneypenny isn’t fooled by Q’s usual front, the impish and self-assured persona he uses while in Q Branch, with his underlings.

She holds a rather unique position in MI6 herself, both professionally and with her connections to the field agents, which is likely the reason why she’s capable of seeing through Q. It’s not as disconcerting as M’s observations are, but at the moment it still throws Q off his balance when he’s yet to truly find his feet after the whirlwind phenomena that are the Jacobs case and situations involving problematic Double-O agents in general.

He takes a biscuit from the tin Moneypenny holds out in his direction and nods at the little paper bag of scones to draw her attention to it. Moneypenny allows him the distraction, and Q eats the biscuit in three efficient bites even as she pushes away from the work table and her laptop with a scone in her hand.

“Are you still working to change 007’s status?” Q lightly brushes off his hands before settling them on his knees, no matter how much he wants his phone in hand. “He looked well enough to pass Medical’s physical assessment and I’ve cleared his equipment, so there shouldn’t be any issues from the support divisions.”

“Having the MIA status on paper helps, but his Double-O designation means there are much more safeguards to work through,” Moneypenny says. “I wanted to check with you, however – although James back in headquarters, I can’t find any traces of where he’s been. Not even an entry back into the United Kingdom under all his MI6 sanctioned identities.”

“If you’re asking if I’ve had better luck, the answer is no.” Q glances at the laptop screen; Moneypenny has obscured most of the opened windows – the Double-O files – now that she’s eating her scone, but in the background, Q can see the evidence of her search. She’s not a computer expert by a long shot, but she does have a solid enough background from her days as a field agent. “There are still some things that neither you nor I have the clearance for.”

She blows out a frustrated breath of air. “You’re right, but I thought I’d try anyway.”

“I’d do the same in your position.”

There’s a careful pause, and then Moneypenny turns around more fully to face him. “But not in yours.”

Q’s smile feels odd on his face, and he just shakes his head, not in negation but to show he’s not saying anything further on that subject. “If that’s all, there are several engagements I need to attend to today.”

“I’m sure,” Moneypenny says. “Do you have any updates on Jacobs that you would like me to convey to M?”

They’re still eschewing discussing Jacobs or the XX program over any communication devices whenever possible; Moneypenny doesn’t know about the Chimera, either. Not that it matters, because—

“No,” Q says. “Beyond the first pseudo-program that he deployed as a test, Jacobs has been very quiet. He could be lying low or he might be planning something decisive with the information I gave him in exchange for the XX program files, perhaps involving the files themselves. The lack of movement means we have no indication which way he’ll go. M – or MI5 – should move quickly, if they haven’t done so already.”

“Understood. I’m meeting M at Whitehall this evening. I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

“And you’ll hear directly from me if Jacobs makes a new move,” Q says, and slips to his feet, smoothing down the front of his parka.

Moneypenny tips her head in his direction, and then gestures at the biscuit tin and the paper bag. “I appreciate the sharing of resources.”

“You’re welcome,” Q says, quite sincerely. “The tacit approval must have gone straight to my team’s heads; they’ve gone far overboard with the food deliveries. I would take some to Tanner as well, but he’s quite indisposed.”

“In M’s absence, yes,” Moneypenny says. “But I don’t think your team will stop attempting to feed you any time soon.”

Q sighs, but it’s more in resigned fondness than anything else. “Possibly. Have a good day.”

He gets as far as to the door when Moneypenny says, “Q.”

Something in her voice makes him turn around to look at her, his hand coming up automatically to adjust his glasses. “Yes?”

“Are you all right?”

No one has asked him that question – not Riley, who keeps a watchful eye on him but does not interfere, and not the Comms team members present that day, who are collectively thinking murderous thoughts but are doubly determined to treat Q the same way they’ve always have, just with added mothering which they have thankfully restricted to the food deliveries. Q hadn’t expected the question, so he answers, quite involuntarily truthful, “I don’t know.”

He manages to stop himself from sighing – in frustration this time – and meets Moneypenny’s gaze. “You adjusted quite quickly to 007’s return.”

“I’m not happy,” Moneypenny says, equally candid. “It will take me a while to regain my equilibrium; he might have kept silent because of his duty, but it doesn’t change what I – we – had to go through in his absence. Still, it _was_ his duty, and I was a field agent myself, once. It isn’t personal.”

Q can say nothing against her statements. It’s right there in the agency’s official name, Secret Intelligence Service. All MI6 personnel employ a persona in some form and their operations are wrapped in mystery and Q may be the quartermaster, but there are plenty of things that don’t fall under his purview. It’s part of the job, the secrets and the lies.

Silence, then, is what the agents employ when they don’t want to use the latter to protect the former.

“I understand,” Q says, and shuts the door carefully behind him.

\---

The next place Q takes himself to is the Inventories, where he fully expects Riley to make a calm yet comprehensive argument against Q’s decision to head out into London to personally kit out 004 for her upcoming mission. Instead, he finds Riley already waiting with the leather-bound case and satchel Q had prepared the night before.

“You’re clocking in far too many hours on the job.” Riley hands him the satchel; it’s durable but lightweight, because 004 prefers to take only the most basic weapons and a good cache of Q’s best decryption programs, code scramblers and destructive viruses with her. “Although I dearly wish to veto your decision to call off your own protection detail.” 

“I’m sure you’re aware I’ve had a certain Double-O trailing my path every time I step out of headquarters,” Q says.

Riley says, very mildly, “That explains why you’ve barely left your office when you’re not on duty,” and otherwise leaves the subject alone.

Q considers, for a long moment, pulling up another playlist on his phone and plugging in his headphones as a way to forcibly distract his thoughts, but decides he’d rather hear the gunshot or other signs of an attack. It’s a long shot – Q doubts he’ll get much indication if Jacobs decides to go after him, and if there are other people planning to follow him this morning, Q knows he won’t see them at all – but Q isn’t in the habit of passively letting things happen to him. 

He’ll go down fighting, if it’s at all possible.

\---

His phone chirrups an alert when Q is within three blocks of the café. It’s 004’s number, although when he opens the message all it contains is a single image of Q himself from about three minutes ago, since he recognizes the buildings in the background.

It’s both wonderful and utterly infuriating to work with the Double-Os because they each come with their own brand of insanity. Most days he savours the challenge, but sometimes Q thinks he might put his head through a wall – occasionally a concussion sounds perfectly lovely.

Although, not really. He’s seen enough of his agents suffer through one to ever wish the worry on another person, and Q is not a fan of pain.

The gentle fragrance of tea and freshly baked bread washes over him when Q steps into the café. He tries his best not to mix work with the personal and he’d been hard pressed not to keep this place in the private category. The café has screened-off reading corners where patrons can enjoy their tea in peace and quiet and privacy, however, and that makes it much more suited as a rendezvous point for his agents than other teashops in the neighbourhood.

Q nods at the proprietor and heads towards the back of the café toward his usual alcove, where he’s confronted by the shocking reality of 004 herself.

004 is in masculine form today. They’re dressed in the same style, sweater vest over a crisp collared shirt and suit pants, although 004’s jacket is hanging from the back of a chair. Her dress shoes must be subtly raised because her eyes behind the glasses are exactly level with his, her long black mane tucked under a curly brown wig – but more than that, she acts like him. She tips her head to the side, eyes with their coloured contacts watching him steadily, and her smile is quiet and subtle when she reaches forward to give him a quick hug. Q hugs her back on autopilot, slightly stunned, and if it wasn’t for the absolutely mischievous smirk she flashes at him at the last moment and the way her face is narrower than his, her shoulders a little more delicate under his hands, he’d have thought he’d walked in front of a mirror.

Each Double-O has their defining characteristics or modus operandi, and 004’s is undoubtedly her flawless disguises, both in appearance and in behaviour. It’s become part of her urban legend in MI6 and Q has certainly seen her masquerades over a camera feed, but it’s the first time she has done it so openly and obviously in his presence; she normally sheds her guises by the time she comes back, comfortable in her own skin when it’s her own agency at the other side of the table.

“Tea?” she asks, her voice a warm baritone, and Q answers back in a similar tone, trying not to let his disorientation show, “Yes, thank you.”

“Just give me a moment.” 004 nods towards the small table, and pulls on her parka before she disappears outside the screens. When she comes back, she’s carrying a full tea set, and although the tableware is just for one, after setting the tray down she picks out a teacup, a saucer, a teaspoon and a fork from the pockets of the parka. 

“Isn’t that terribly conspicuous?” Q says, referring to her appearance and not to the appropriation of crockery; 004 has quick fingers.

“Only if they saw me coming in.”  In the privacy of their corner, out of camera and physical sightlines and with no plans to leave any time soon, 004 allows the feminine tones back in her voice. “As far as anyone in the café is concerned, they’ve seen the same person coming in and collecting the tea set, and they will definitely only see one person leaving this establishment.”

She pours the tea and sets the teacup in Q’s hands – Earl Grey, loose leaf, with just the right amount of milk and sugar, bless her – and watches him with slightly narrowed eyes.

“There’s no indication that the cover you used with Jacobs has been broken,” she says with neither lead in nor fanfare, and Q just blinks at her. “I’ve been dressed up like you since yesterday and no one has tried to follow or confront me, and I trust that you have safeguards against the usual technological surveillance. I thought it might reassure you to know that.”

There are so many questionable parts to that speech that – for his own sanity – Q decides to begin with the most trivial. “Right. I’d know if anyone’s hacked my own cameras. So, how did you know what I was – and am – wearing?”

“We—” and the slight emphasis means _the Double-Os_ “—have our ways.” She smiles at him, coy, a flash of herself before the smile melts uncannily into one of his own.  “But no, I just asked Bill. You’re a difficult man to track; thank goodness you have a fairly predictable wardrobe for work.”

Q takes a sip of his tea, lets the warmth and the fragrance sooth his jangled nerves. “So you know all about Jacobs, then. The files he had, and what leverages I used to get a hold of that information.”

“It’s our kind of mission, so yes. It was masterfully done of you, but you’re not a field agent, and you shouldn’t have to handle this on your own. 007 kept an eye on you, and I acted as a decoy. Just in case.”

The knowledge that the Double-Os consider him as some sort of joint possession to be watched over shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does. They are fiercely protective of the MI6 staff they come in close contact with on a regular basis – M, of course, and Tanner and Moneypenny. But Q stays close to headquarters at all times, so he’d never experienced that protectiveness first-hand.

Except from Bond. Q’s not delusional enough to deny that. 

“Don’t worry,” 004 continues lightly, and lifts a hand to adjust her glasses. “007 only trailed you until you entered my orbit. There’s no point having two agents on the same duty, after all.”

Q believes her. It’s in Bond’s own self-interest to leave them well alone. Scarlet is sweet and clever and efficient; as 004, she’s terrifying if someone ever crosses her, because they’ll never see her coming.

He has to admire her attention to detail; her right wrist is wrapped in a compression bandage, the same as his.  

“What happens now?” Q says.

“Now I head off on my next mission and 007 gets to clean up the mess over at Thames House, and that should take care of your problem with Jacobs.” 004’s voice is still light, but there’s an unreadable look in her eyes, and it’s not because of her contact lenses. She takes a calm sip of her tea and sets the cup down with the softest clink of porcelain on porcelain. “Based on availability it should have been my assignment, but I hear he’s been spending quite lot of time there.”

Q fiddles with his own teacup, and doesn’t say a word.  

Her gaze homes unerringly on his hands. “Well, well,” she says softly. “That’s—heavily restricted information. How did you know?”

“I didn’t.”

 _But you suspected_ , her eyes say, but she merely picks up the teapot and refills his teacup. The silence that falls between them is charged but oddly comfortable. Q continues drinking his tea, and 004 works her way delicately through the little teacakes and sandwiches without smudging her makeup or marring her disguise in any other way. It takes the buzz of 004’s phone to break Q out of his thoughts, and when he glances at his watch more than half an hour has passed. 

He must look a little harried, because 004 says, “Did you have another appointment after this?”

She knows full well that he doesn’t. He does need to meet with Weapons and Engineering, but that’s in another hour. Q always blocks out a substantial amount of time when he meets with Double-Os; he prefers to wait on them than the other way around, and occasionally he has to tweak their equipment kit on the spot, especially when they’re using his new technology or inventions for the first time.

“No,” he says.

“Good. 0010 told me once that this is one of your favourite cafes, and I’m glad to have company for a well-brewed cup of tea before I start my work.” 004 stands and slings Q’s satchel over one shoulder. “Come on. I’ll shadow you back to headquarters before I leave.”

Q tips his head back to meet her eyes. “That rather defeats the purpose of meeting you here.”

“Indulge me,” she says. “And I think you could do with some more time to think, outside of headquarters and without my tenacious colleague hovering over your shoulder, however discreetly he does it.”

Q could point out that that he’s just spent the past half hour in company with his thoughts and he’s no closer to resolving any of the problems on his agenda than he was this morning, but he doubts he’ll win that argument against her. He stands to slip on his jacket, and then 004 steps around the table to tuck her own parka around Q’s shoulders.

“Really,” Q says in his driest voice – he’s long stopped trying to censor himself in front of her. “The Kevlar I had woven into your jackets are meant for more dangerous environments than London.”

004 smiles at him. “I’m going for a different look for my mission. You can put that one back into the Inventories for when I get back.” And then her expression goes serious in a flash, and she lightly clasps Q’s bandaged wrist, over his sleeve and almost exactly around the bruise marks Bond left on him. “Take care of yourself, Quartermaster. And do take this into consideration – Double-Os never do anything without due cause.”

She releases him and takes a step back, and Q keeps his eyes on her, tries not to let the words sink into his bones where they’ll undo the measure of order he’d managed to pull his thoughts into during their tea break.

“004,” he says, and then stops.

She doesn’t touch him again, but pulls the hood of her Kevlar jacket up over his head and ruffles the fur trim absentmindedly. “You won’t see me, but I’ll be waiting out front for you. Just head back to Vauxhall Cross as you normally would.”

004 is one of their best agents, and so very perfect in her guises that she takes the longest assignments, going undercover for weeks on end and orchestrating all sorts of chaos in her wake, the collapse of regimes or the signing of cross-border agreements, less explosive but no less international headlines-worthy than her male Double-O counterparts. It’s no wonder she’s close friends with Tanner; Q can clearly see how their differing personalities click together.

“Stay safe,” is all Q says as she goes up on the windowsill, propping up the frame, letting in a momentary gust of outside air; Q finds it more refreshing than chilling. 004 flashes him a smile over one shoulder, and slips out. The window falls back into place with a muffled thud.

It’s his cue, Q knows, to leave. He takes a deep breath of the cool air still lingering in the room, and leans over to pick up the tray of their tea things. Hopefully the proprietor will be too busy to notice the extra crockery when he returns them at the counter.

\---

Q is used to being judged based upon his youth even after he became the quartermaster, but more subtle is the distinction that, titles aside, he’s still a support staff, not an active agent in the field.

They do have a point, Q has to admit. His field of expertise is mostly cerebral and even his tinkering and inventions are mainly in the creation of them, and so he understands why Moneypenny and even 004 had much to say about his engaging Jacobs directly. It’s not about being coddled or being protected, but about playing to their individual strengths; Q is quite a terrible liar and his emotions can get the better of him at times, and he does so much better seated at his workstation with a keyboard at his fingertips, manipulating the world from a distance.

Q’s strength lies in the analytical, and so although there’s a significant part of him that truly does just want to hide away and not deal with the ticking bomb that is James Bond, his avoidance of the man is also entirely calculated.

He chooses to send the text message from his public workstation in the main observations lab, surrounded by his computer systems and his Communications team.

The message consists of one piece of information – Q’s home address.

He looks up when a few of his underlings pass by. The food stash has become a free-for-all due to sheer quantity, and Q makes a note to get them to pick out somewhere else for their makeshift pantry; they’ve been very good about keeping it strictly to the one corner, but Q’s workbench is cluttered enough as it is. He eats a bite-sized brownie just to head off the various concerned faces his underlings make when he goes so long without eating, and then sends the second part of the message – the passcodes to his flat’s security system.

The implications should be obvious enough without Q needing to spell the order out.

Q wonders if Bond will follow his directives now, or whether Bond will deem Q’s safety as paramount over his wishes. There will always be an animal part of Q that shies instinctively from the thought of violence or harm to himself and Jacobs has more than roused that part of him, but greater than Q’s fear is his desire for control. Being tailed all over London is simply a reminder of that lack of control, that he’s not quite able to safeguard himself when for so long Q’s prowess at surveillance and hacking had kept him hidden and protected.

Q hates to admit it, but in this circumstance, a bullet to Jacobs’s head would be the easiest and simplest solution to about half his problems.

The other half – perhaps more than half – are all related to the man who is most likely to be behind the pull of the trigger.

His phone chimes a few minutes later, Bond’s reply a single _affirmative_ , and Q feels something in him settle. Of all the things that would make the reality of Bond’s return real, it would be this – their interactions filtered through technology, where Q’s messier emotions won’t get in the way.

He’s not going to have any buffers with the oncoming conversation – he’s entirely committed now, all his chips on the table.

It’s time to make a decisive move, and bring this into the endgame.

\---

His security system is disabled when Q finally makes it home that evening, and although the flat appears quite empty, Q knows better.

His flat keys are mostly for show, although the heavy lock is there in the rare event of a simultaneous power outage and failure of the small backup generator, which Q sets up to maintain the minimal power required to keep his systems in sleep mode and his primary security functions intact. Bond got through the front lock, of course. If he puts his mind into it, he could probably get into the restricted sections of Q’s flat as well – his den, with his personal computer systems, and the small study with heavily coded drafts for potential prototypes. The passcodes allow anyone to get through Q’s technological deterrents, and the physical locks – well, Bond is a Double-O.

He doesn’t know whether to be surprised or simply calm to find Bond sitting in his living room, with only the floor lamp turned on for illumination. For all the ways that Bond has shattered things between them the Double-O still respects his boundaries; the doors to Q’s den and study look undisturbed, and Q chooses to take the evidence at face value. 

“Welcome back,” Bond murmurs.

Q just looks at him, and then walks to put his phone on the side table, unzipping his parka as he goes. He disables all the alerts on his phone except for those related to the Chimera and the emergency line from Q Branch, and then he turns around.

“I’m surprised that you would choose here of all places to have this conversation,” Bond says.

“It isn’t my first choice.” Q twists his injured wrist gently; the joint aches after a long day and especially after his walk in the cold, from his Tube station to the flat. “But it was something Moneypenny said.”

The barest tilt of his head that betrays Bond’s interest.

“She’s understandably upset with you, but it’s something she’s willing to put aside because she recognises that it was part of your duties. It wasn’t personal, she said.”

He suspects he’s fiddling with his hands more than doing anything to help ease the stiffness in his wrist, but he can’t help himself. Bond watches him, watches his hands, and doesn’t say a word.

“But it’s personal for me,” Q says, very softly. “I started this when I told you I could track you no matter where you go, and you continued it the moment you started putting me through all sorts of situations that you claim aren’t tests. It’s clearly personal on both of our parts after our trip to Skyfall Lodge, so in the end, this place – my flat – is the only real choice, isn’t it.”

The smile that flits across Bond’s mouth doesn’t seem to touch his eyes at all. “I wouldn’t want to do this at headquarters, no.”

It’s not a game, Bond’s gaze tells Q that much – serious, unwavering and expectant all at once. If it’s anything, it’s a puzzle; Q has to guess, he has to piece it together. Bond can’t tell him about a classified mission and his silences are an answer in and of themselves, but Q is an expert at decryption, of uncovering the unknown, and Bond is _here_.

That has to mean something.

“What’s Thames House like now?” Q asks, because it’s tradition; this is how their first conversation went, after all – mutually going for the jugular. “I’ve only been inside MI5’s headquarters once, and it was a very long time ago. To be fair, we wouldn’t easily allow them inside our establishments either.”

There’s a long, long silence, during which Q absolutely refuses to look away, and then Bond says—

“Depressing. I chose to work for MI6 for a reason. I wouldn’t go there on anything less than M’s behest. And their Commissary is hardly as flexible as you are.”

—and Q feels conflicting emotions rise in him, his uninjured hand clenching tight at the confirmation the same time that the heavy knot in his chest loosens, just a little. It’s not much of a line, but it’s a concession on Bond’s part, and there’s space now for Q to manoeuvre, to dig for the answers he wants.

This, Q can work with.

“Careful, Bond. She’s my counterpart, after all, and I'm usually quite fond of her,” Q says, and goes to stand by the couch across from Bond, to consider his next move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed that the chapter count has been increased to seven, from the original six. That's because this chapter got way out of hand and I decided devoting more attention to Q and Bond's (much needed) conversation here would be time well-spent indeed, so it gets its own chapter. So yes, two more parts to go. 
> 
> In somewhat unrelated news, Q in the new [Spectre/Omega ad](http://blackidyll.tumblr.com/post/131214270635/whishawnews-omega-and-spectre-revealing-the) utterly slays me with his adorableness. I just wanted to say that :D


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What I don’t understand,” Q says, “is why you couldn’t contact me, or respond in any other way.”

The room is silent save for the softest, near imperceptible hum of myriad electronic devices, the sole evidence that Q’s security system exists. This flat is a space that Q has crafted for himself, a haven he retreats to that is entirely his own and it should be disconcerting to have Bond here, crossing all his boundaries between the personal and the professional, but mostly what Q feels is a numbed sense of anticipation.

“What I don’t understand,” Q says, “is why you couldn’t contact me, or respond in any other way.”

“It was a classified mission, on a strict need to know basis,” Bond says.

“Because you’re so good about keeping to the rules.”

“And you know full well that Jacobs is an expert hacker.”

“You told me yourself that I could have handled it, that communications wouldn’t have compromised MI6. And you were using my technology, on my devices.” Q keeps his voice steady and calm; the longer he can keep to neutrality, the easier it will be for him to keep a cool head and steer the conversation where he wants it to go. “All you had to do was reply any one of my messages. Send back a blank text of your own, that’s all you needed to do.”

Something about Q’s words seems to click into place for Bond; his eyes narrow. “You knew I was alive. Moneypenny and Tanner, they hoped so, but you actually knew for certain.”

And as usual, Bond is adept at finding all of Q’s vulnerabilities and pouring salt over them. Q could refuse to respond, insist instead that Bond answer his original line of inquiry, but if Bond wants an all-out confrontation then Q is more than willing to give him one.

“Of course I knew you were alive. I programmed your kit, Bond. I told you I’d be able to track you down, you or your body or traces of it. I’d find breadcrumbs, indications of where you went at the very least, not a complete blackout, not the way your signal cuts off so cleanly. I’m one of the very best in this world; there are others might be able to keep me out, but they can’t stop me from following the trail all the way up to their firewalls.” His smile is frightening thing, all sharp and full of teeth; Q can’t seem to stop himself. “And I won’t stop, you know. Destroying things from the outside in is the hallmark of an expert hacker.”

“But you didn’t find me,” Bond says.

“No, I didn’t. It took me a while to put it together, but I had my suspicions after I first clashed with Jacobs, and especially after I met with him.” Q appreciates his privacy, but this time he chooses deliberately to break it; he has never been ordered to keep this part of his history secret, after all. “There is just one organization I’m not allowed to try my hand at. One nation’s systems that I’m forbidden to touch. I own the Secret Services’ communications systems. But the other United Kingdom agencies – that’s entirely off-limits. Especially anything involving MI5’s headquarters at Thames House.”

“So,” Bond says, the word coming out crisp and clear, languidly dangerous. “You were not to get involved in MI5 operations, and yet when Jacobs’s folder landed in your hands you decided to confront him not just online, but _in person_.”

Q feels his temper fray and he snaps back, “You are the very last person to talk about taking risks in order to get a job done.”

“And as the person who constantly counsels me to caution, it’s quite hypocritical of you not to take your own advice.” While earlier Bond’s body language had been politely detached there is now a coiled energy in his frame. “You were supposed to stay safe in headquarters, out of the line of fire.”

“I am sick,” Q says almost over the end of Bond’s words, “of being told how I should or should not act because I am not what people think I should be. I’m not a field agent, but Jacobs wouldn’t have dealt nicely with an agent, would he.”

Bond watches him, his body language now neutral; Q can’t read anything off him. "Fair enough. If you go by results alone, you were perfect. Better than anyone else we could have sent against him.”

“I don’t need your commendation.” Q manages to keep his irritation to just the barest snap in his voice. He takes a steadying breath to gather his thoughts – and to stop berating himself for how quickly he’d lost track of the conversation.

The couch is a solid, steady presence under his hands, a grounding object. If Q can’t have his phone or his communication devices then at least he has this, the couch serving as a physical buffer between him and this most enigmatic and frustrating of Double-Os, and a reminder that Q needs to keep up his own emotional ones.

“The Home Office lost the XX program files to Jacobs. And shortly after Jacobs left the United Kingdom, you were sent out.” Q brings his gaze back up to study Bond’s expression. He’s not the best at reading subtle tells, but it’s all he has to go on right now. “Not after Jacobs – both the Communications team and myself have focused on him too much not to catch any indication of you, if you could even locate him – so after the XX agents, perhaps. Some of them had been assigned to our diplomatic missions in other countries—”

Bond inclines his head, just slightly, and Q says, more decisively. “After the XX agents, then. To collect them before their covers are destroyed.” He goes quiet for a while, turning that new fact over in his head. “So when C passed me Jacobs’s file, you were already involved.”

“Yes,” Bond confirms, unexpectedly. And then, “The explosion at the warehouse was genuine. I heard that that was the last piece of communication you have from me.”

Q’s fingers dig into the top of the couch, the throb of pain flaring through his wrist telling him that he’s going far too tense again. “You worried a lot of people. And whatever you were supposed to do in Moscow—”

“Was inconsequential compared to this,” Bond cuts in. “MI5 requested support from us the moment they discovered that Jacobs had the entirety of the XX program files and had escaped the United Kingdom’s borders. They utilized every favour that M owed them, and in turn, M choose to assign a Double-O to the job. As you’re well aware yourself, Jacobs and the XX program takes precedence over all else.”

Something in Bond’s words tugs at Q, telling him that there’s a detail that is not quite what it seems, that is worth pursuing. It’s an instinct that Q has come to trust, and he follows the thought, sorting it through the way he would a particularly troublesome piece of code, hunting for the error.

“Why you?” Q asks slowly. “If I’ve put the timeline together correctly, 004 should have returned back to headquarters around the time Jacobs became a problem. She certainly deserves leave after nearly two months in the field but it makes more sense to send her rather than pulling another Double-O off an already active assignment. Especially one that has been injured.”

There’s a faint question underneath Q’s statement, and Bond smiles, a flash of movement that fades just as quickly. “Just some minor cuts and a concussion. It hardly compares to a gunshot wound or some of the interrogations I’ve lived though.”

Bond’s infuriatingly clinical tone makes Q want to do something irrational – like yell at him until Bond finally figures out that he’s human, not an automaton – so when he speaks, his voice comes out clipped and icy. “Don’t ignore my question.”

“Why me?” Bond leans a fraction backward, out of the light cast by the floor lamp, and his eyes gleam in the near shadows. “M owes MI5 plenty of debts from his predecessor’s death. For dealing with the destruction and the deaths at Skyfall, and covering up the attack at the tribunal buildings at Westminster. And as the person who was at the centre of that situation, M thought I should pay back my dues. The cutting off of my comms line by the explosion was rather convenient for both M and MI5.”  

The spike of irritation that runs through Q is much more profound this time – it’s not directed at Bond, but at himself. He’d excluded Q Branch’s own signals when he ran his search after Bond’s disappearance, not wanting to flag up any MI6 field agent on clandestine missions and trusting that any MI6 affiliates would have reported back to Tanner if anything came up. And Q had mostly left the few MI5 signals alone, adhering to his years-old ultimatum.

And they’d hidden Bond, of course. They’d cloaked all traces of him long before he ever set foot in Thames House, possibly with XX agents in tow.

As C herself said, sometimes a team is better than one specialist, no matter how good Q is with his systems.

“That explains quite a lot, then,” is all Q says out loud. His fingers slide restlessly against the worn fabric of his couch, his wrist twinging with pain every so often.

“I was told to keep the details of my new mission strictly confidential across all levels. We didn’t know deeply Jacobs’s roots went.” Bond’s voice goes from sardonic to politely curious. “How did you figure it out? That I was helping MI5 with the Jacobs case.”

Q stifles a sigh. “C asked me to trace Jacobs around the time of your disappearance. And once I lured Jacobs back to London and retrieved the XX files, you reappeared shortly after.” He considers, for a brief moment, not mentioning the last part, but in the interest of encouraging mutual disclosure, he finally adds, “and Jacobs knew about the Double-Os’s statuses. That the other three were on duty, and you were missing. He also referenced the Spooks. Coincidences do happen, but they’re quite rare in our line of work. And there were too many here for it to be anything but planned.”

“C made a mistake, then, when she spread those rumours.”

There’s an undercurrent of vicious satisfaction beneath Bond’s even voice, and this time it’s Q’s turn to tilt his head in silent inquiry.

“Jacobs still had roots in MI5. To buy her team time, C released false information regarding the state of the Spooks as well as the Double-Os. This was after she’d passed you Jacobs’s file to serve as further distraction. Those rumours were never supposed to make it back to either you or your Communications team.”

 _Distraction_. Q scrubs his uninjured hand through his hair. “C knows me well. She knew someone like Jacobs and the operations he was involved in would appeal to me, both for Jacobs’s prowess in our chosen area of expertise as well as the possible threat he posed against our agencies. But I suppose even she couldn’t predict that Jacobs and I would have a chance to speak, much less that he would call out the Double-Os to me of all people.”

“In the grand scheme of failures, hers was the least. Jacobs was an XX agent himself, recruited during the height of the program. And he stayed long enough to extract the details of all the other agents involved.” There’s a faint hint of detached respect in Bond’s voice. “It’s a shame he doesn’t work for us.”

It takes a moment for Q to realize that he’s staring, no doubt with a disbelieving look on his face, because if Jacobs truly was an XX agent turned rogue who managed to steal the files rather than breaking through MI5 firewalls, then the Security Service had made monumental errors of judgment, far worse than Q’s underestimation of Silva a year ago.

He shakes his head to physically clear his head of extraneous thoughts, and mentally reviews all the new information Bond’s given him, trying to sort through the tangled facts to arrive back at his main point. His legs are starting to ache – it’s been a long day, with his tracks around headquarters and London before he managed to catch a few scant hours of peace at the main observation lab for the last of his shift.

But the reluctance to sit down is almost a physical sensation dragging at Q’s limbs. Bond looks almost innocuous seated in one of Q’s armchairs, in Q’s cluttered living room, but Q knows better. Bond is, after all, a Double-O. He knows how to play the game, to manipulate people and obscure the truth.

For all that Bond has given him, he has yet to answer the very first question Q posed.

“You’ve disclosed quite a lot of information on a mission you’ve been insisting has to be kept strictly confidential. So I’ll ask you again – why didn’t you respond to any of my messages?”

Bond doesn’t react, his expression remaining quite neutral. “You’re a far better hacker than C’s team. If I’d responded, even once, you’d trace your way right to MI5. You could break clean through their system.”

“The restrictions on me aside, would that have been so bad? Rivalries or not, the Security Service are our allies. We serve the same government and country, for goodness’ sake.”

“MI5 wasn’t my concern.”

Q narrows his eyes. Bond’s sudden reticence, normally so characteristic of the man, now stands out like a beacon against the way their conversation had flowed so easily just moments before.

“What are you not telling me?” he says directly, no pretences or prevarication. They’re not at headquarters, and this is not a normal conversation between two MI6 personnel. The silences and the lies have no place here, not when the truth has brought them this far. “This flat is secure and we’ve already covered Jacobs and the XX program and MI5’s involvement. If you can’t be honest with me here—”

“M made it very clear,” Bond cuts in abruptly, “that of all MI6 personnel, I should not contact you.”

Rather than clarifying anything, Bond’s answer simply inspires more questions. The bewilderment Q feels supersedes his frustration, and he blurts out, “What?” followed swiftly by, “Because I’d interfere or get involved? Well, that backfired spectacularly.”

Bond doesn’t respond, and although his expression is neutral as ever his gaze is distant. When he finally turns back towards Q there’s an oddly intent look in his eyes.

“How much do you know about Vesper?”

Q’s fingers go still, and he casts a questioning look in Bond’s direction, as if he could glean Bond’s intentions if he stared hard enough.

He’s familiar with Vesper Lynd’s name. The former M did many things to shield her agents; great swathes of Bond’s file is redacted and there are a number of points, Q suspects, that never made it in, but Lynd is there, an irrevocable part of Bond’s history, reduced to cold, emotionless lines between his promotion to Double-O status and the discovery of Quantum.

The rest of the tale, the story behind the beautiful British Financial Task Force agent who died on-duty in Venice – that, Q discovered when he’d gone in to restructure the former M’s registries in preparation for Mallory’s promotion to the position: the resignation letter, the few CCTV still-images tracing Bond and Lynd’s departure from Lake Como to their arrival in Venice, and the very brief psychological report that had never been filed.

“She worked with you on a mission, representing the British Treasury, although it was later revealed that she was an unwilling double agent for a terrorist organization. She was killed while on-duty. Afterward, you hunted down the conman masquerading as her boyfriend, the one she betrayed the Treasury for, exposing Quantum’s existence and taking down a major part of its operations at the same time.”

“Succinctly put,” Bond says. The single floor lamp casts a heavy wash of light across the living room floor. It licks at Q’s fingers where his hands have settled on the back of the couch, and throws Bond’s face into stark relief. “But that’s hardly the whole truth.”

Q has never once been afraid or intimidated by Bond – not during any of their sparring, both verbal and physical, and not even when Bond was at his most dangerous, volatile and unpredictable in the days after the former M’s death – but there’s something quietly lethal in Bond’s body language and his voice that now alarms Q.

“I was badly compromised, both during our affair and after her death. She manipulated me and embezzled the funds we were given, delivering the sum to Quantum. I resigned as 007 for her. And when she died – well. That whole business with Quantum was incidental, a very lucky success.” Bond’s eyes gleam like diamonds, cold and uncompromising, the blue of his irises washed out by the low lighting of the room. “I loved her. And I was emotionally compromised.”

The admission startles Q, not just for the abruptness of it but also that Bond would divulge it at all. He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything stupid or potentially unforgiveable.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” It’s an understatement, but it’s more than what most fields agents would say, which is nothing at all. Q can’t quite emulate their clinical approach to death, not yet, and not when he’s already struggling to get his thoughts across properly, in face of an uncharacteristically candid Bond. “And—thank you for trusting me enough to tell me so. But I don’t understand what connection this has with what happened these past few weeks.”

“My position has been unstable ever since the events at Skyfall. I stopped Silva from destroying MI6, but M – Olivia – died. It doesn’t matter how I personally feel about it,” Bond swiftly adds, and Q backs down, “All that matters is how the higher-ups perceive it. And to them, allowing the leader of my agency to die on my watch was a spectacular failure on my part, one that should have buried me.”

“It didn’t,” Q says, resolute. He might not know all the details but he’s there for the beginnings and ends of missions, and Bond’s track record has been clean, the first few chaotic weeks and destroyed equipment notwithstanding.

"But it doesn’t mean they don’t have their doubts. I may have played my hand when I kidnapped you to Skyfall several weeks ago."

For some inexplicable reason, Q’s heart rate is picking up, an audible rush in his ears. “What does that mean?”

“It means that M wants to avoid a repeat of what happened with Vesper. I was assigned to the XX program mission to pay back my dues, but it was also a test on whether I could adhere to the letter of my orders and remain professional.”

Q doesn’t have to worry about broken filters this time; his head is full of white noise. “I apologize. I believe I’ve misunderstood—”

Bond doesn’t move at all from his position on the armchair, and his voice holds a tone of finality. “I don’t think you have.”

He’s quite aware that Bond is watching his every reaction, but it’s all Q can do to remain standing when all he wants to do is finally collapse on a chair somewhere so he can devote his mind to processing Bond’s words. The space between them – the length of the couch and Q’s coffee table – is at once too vast and entirely too stifling.

“So—” Q hates that his voice comes out higher pitched than usual, uncertain when normally he’s so steady in his convictions. “When you said earlier that I was supposed to stay out of the line of fire at headquarters—”

He cuts off the question awkwardly, but Bond doesn’t interrupt him this time, just looks back at him, calm, dispassionate, unreadable.

Q resists the urge to clear his throat, and straightens, forcing steel into his stance in hopes it’ll help sort out his emotions as well. “Was that literal or metaphorical?”

Unexpectedly, wry amusement seems to colour Bond’s voice. “It’s my attachments and my past that prompted M to act the way he did. You were mostly unaware of either; it seemed pointless to compromise your career over this.” 

Anger is an easier and much more comfortable emotion to nurse and hold than confusion or shock. “If I didn’t force this discussion, you would have left it be, wouldn’t you. You would have kept your secrets and meanwhile I would be left there with my hurt and frustration and the belief that you’d finally chosen the nihilistic path after all.”

Bond has the gall to chuckle at him. “You wouldn’t have accepted that. I always knew you would force a confrontation of some sort, and then I would have told you about the XX program. Of course, you always have a way of deciphering even the smallest flaw in any cover, and eliciting much more than the subject ever intended to give away.”

“I thought we’ve been through this,” Q says. “I thought you were through martyring yourself for other people’s causes.”

“ _I_ thought I was securing my position as a Double-O and acting in a professional, non-reckless manner.”

“Do you even know what you want?” Q half yells at him; his voice doesn’t rise in volume but in force, reverberating in the confines of the room. Bond’s eyes flash a fraction wider, startled, and Q pushes his advantage. “In your line of work, in your personal life, anything.”

Bond doesn’t answer, but it doesn’t seem like his usual deflections where he shrugs off inquiries and concerns like water off a perfectly smooth pane of glass. Q stares at him, waiting for a response, any response.

The shrill ring of a phone shatters the moment and Q flinches. His eyes turn automatically to his phone on the side table before he remembers that he’d disabled most of the alerts and the ringtone is not of the emergency line or the one he customized for the Chimera.

He flicks his gaze back to Bond. “You should answer that.”

“No.” Bond doesn’t even look at his phone for the identity of the caller before he cancels the call, the ringtone cutting off abruptly and leaving silence ringing in its absence. He sets the device face down on the arm of his chair.

Q steps out from behind the couch and stalks over to Bond, his parka flaring out with the abruptness of his movements. He reaches out to take the phone with his injured hand – Bond makes no move to stop him – and checks the missed call.  

 _Number withheld_. Of course it is.

He places the phone back on the arm of the chair, staring down at Bond. With Bond seated, Q has the advantage of height. It was almost indiscernible when they had been at opposite sides of the room, but this close, it forces Bond to tilt his head back to meet Q’s eyes. He gives no indication that he’ll move to stand – hasn’t moved or stood even once since Q returned, when normally Bond is so adept at taking control of a room with the sheer intensity of his presence, through the fluidly lethal way he moves.

Q doesn’t move away now. “What will happen with Jacobs? Neither MI5 nor MI6 has made a move against him.”

This close, Q can study the minutiae of Bond’s expression, and he’s frank with his answer, no hesitation about disclosing what should be classified information. “Now that we’ve essentially declawed him and pulled his teeth, both M and MI5 are content to leave him be. See where he leads us, which organizations he’s most interested in currying. A triple-crosser like him must have plenty of contacts.”

Q lets himself mull that over. So Jacobs gets to roam free, just marginally less dangerous now that the XX program files are obsolete, and potentially leading both MI5 and MI6 to more dangerous organizations. M must be pleased – he has more than crossed off his debts to MI5, and after all that is said and done he now clearly has the upper hand. It’s his Double-O who has retrieved the XX agents, and it’s his Quartermaster who lured Jacobs back into the United Kingdom and who is the only one capable disabling Jacobs, should the hacker choose to use the Chimera program in full.

M holds all the cards now, a perfect royal straight flush. And even if they’ve lost this round, MI5 has done well for themselves – their security breach has been nicely fixed up with minimal losses. There won’t be any public backlash or a witch-hunt on the ISC’s part over this.

Meanwhile, in the detritus are the XX agents, who are safe but caught in an odd limbo with their covers compromised, a Double-O agent with a devastating ability to throw everything into chaos, and Q himself, who feels like his chest has been cracked open, his vulnerable insides free for the picking by vultures and the like.

“You’re upset,” Bond says.

“Is it that obvious?” Q feels hot and flushed because the heat is on and he’s still wearing his parka, and his wrist aches where he’s twisting his hands restlessly against each other. “It’s an inter-agency power play. And getting the XX agents out, that was paramount. We’re all bound to our duty, I understand all of that, but—it’s never that clean cut, is it. I wish I could say that this entire situation is a purely professional affair for me.”

Because the past few weeks have revealed a few things to Q, loathed though he is to acknowledgment them when he had so many responsibilities to attend to and a missing Double-O to worry over. Theirs has never been a conventional relationship, not as colleagues or friends or anything more, but if Q is honest with himself this inexplicable thing between them started long before Bond ever took him to Skyfall.

He looks at Bond now, normally so intensely private and stoic, and wonders if he thinks Q harsh for not directly addressing the admission that, to Bond, and certainly in M's eyes, Q is comparable to Vesper in terms of their positions in Bond’s regard.

“You told me once," Q says, and something in his voice must give him away, because Bond leans forward, staring up at Q intently, "that a year is a long time to be fixated on something, on one man.”

Bond gives a sharp nod in acknowledgment.

“It struck me as odd at the time, but now it’s just ironic. Because that’s exactly what I did with you, didn’t I?” Q laughs, a near inaudible sound. “I said it earlier, this is personal. My thoughts and my actions these past weeks have been entirely coloured by my concern and frustration and—everything—for you. So I can either accept that you’ve become an irreplaceable factor in my life, or I can attempt to excise your influence the way I did my failure at Silva’s hand.”

Bond’s expression barely flickers; his eyes go distant for a moment before sharpening. Q holds his gaze. They’re hanging on the edge of something, and it’s hardly the time to back down; it’s not in Q’s nature to.

“And?” Bond says, his voice even.

A sudden wave of exhaustion courses through Q’s veins, leeching away his stronger emotions and leaving something hollow and empty in their place. He knows the rumours, he’s spread some of them himself, but not the ones about the Double-Os and not the one about himself. He’ll push and challenge and tease his team, but in their eyes he is still their Quartermaster, respected and very much untouchable, the way they see the Double-Os and think them emotionally distant, beyond typical human concerns.

Q reaches out to brush his fingertips against Bond’s cheek. He draws back immediately, but not before he feels Bond go absolutely still.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Q says. “Please call M or Moneypenny back.” He taps once at the phone, and then walks out of the room to finally take off his parka.

\---

Escaping into the corridor feels like exiting from a stiflingly hot room into the space and air of the outdoors; here, Q can take a deep breath and squeeze his eyes shut for more than two seconds. He pulls off his glasses and pinches at the bridge of his nose, and when he finally has a measure of calm he replaces his glasses, reaching forward to pull open his front closet, and—

Bond’s topcoat is still hanging there, dark and heavy and in pristine condition.

Q snaps the closet door shut, startling himself with the noise.

Moments later, Bond appears in the entryway, his eyes narrowed as he scans the short corridor before his gaze lands on Q.

Q pulls away from the closet, curling his hands into themselves so he doesn’t clutch at his parka like a child, and stares right back.

Seconds tick past before Bond concedes the matter. “I need to go.”

There wasn’t a corresponding alert on Q’s phone, which means that Bond’s errand is M-related, the type of missions that Q Branch isn't privy to.

“Then it’s a good thing I asked you to call back, isn’t it,” Q says quietly.

As an answer, Bond simply pockets his phone and strides forward.

For just a moment, Q considers returning the topcoat to Bond – it’s been hanging in his closet all this while, and here Bond finally is, away from MI6 eyes or surveillance. But something in Q balks at the thought. Nothing about this situation is simple or conventional. MI6 personnel, much less ones in their unique positions, don’t get to play by normal rules – there are far too many consequences. Returning the coat now would be a statement, no matter how much Q tries to keep it innocuous, and he doesn’t want to make that decision, not tonight.

And if he can’t give an answer, the least Q can do is to meet Bond’s gaze straight on and unflinchingly when Bond stops beside him, just before the front door.

“Stay safe,” is all Q says, one of his standard remarks to the Double-Os, and reaches between them to pull the door open. The rush of cold air makes Q blink even under his glasses, his eyes stinging, and Bond watches him for an instant before he slips out, as fleeting as a wraith and equally as silent.

Q shuts the door and resets his security systems, his body working on autopilot. He takes off the parka, leaving it slung over the back of the couch as he goes to the kitchen to finally, finally make himself a cup of tea.

He sits down on the couch, and despite both the clamour of thoughts in his head and the caffeine in his system, it takes very little time for him to slide sideways into the cushions and fall deeply asleep, his mind too exhausted to dream.

\---

He registers, still four-fifths asleep, the touch of hands against his temples, lifting his glasses away. A spike of exasperation flares through Q, threatening to pull him further awake, but lethargy continues dragging heavily at him and he feels a distinct lack of alarm, Bond’s presence like the homely background noises of Q’s neighbourhood and the near imperceptible hum of his network of systems – safe and accepted, and no cause for concern.

He did give Bond the passcodes to his security system, after all.

He curls his face further into the cushion now that the barrier of his glasses is gone, and something light strokes against his hair, and then, daringly, settles gently against the back of his neck. It’s shockingly intimate, a touch from a deadly man when he’s most vulnerable, where one twist could snap his neck, but somehow Q doesn’t come completely awake.

Bond’s voice is low, candid, a murmured secret granted greater weight by the way it’s given away. “I want this. It isn’t so bad, being tied to someone like you.” 

It’s entirely possible that Bond feels him tense under the touch. But Bond doesn’t say a word about it, doesn’t break the illusion, and Q falls back asleep between indecisive thoughts of continuing as he is, hiding, or turning around to face Bond, as he always does.

\---

The next morning, the only indication that Q didn’t dream up that second visit is the blanket tucked around him and his glasses folded neatly on the coffee table, next to his phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy _Spectre_ UK release day!! (it's almost midnight in my timezone :D)
> 
> I'm actually a little amazed that I managed to finish this chapter before the movie is publicly released in the UK. It's always been my intention - and a bit of a stretch goal, because I'm a slow writer - to finish this entire fic before _Spectre_ comes out. This is partly because I was afraid I'd lose focus with all the hype of the movie and also because I was worried the details in this story would be jossed by the new canon. If it happens, that's okay; I just don't want to know when I'm in the middle of writing this fic. ~~For example, I've been avoiding _Spectre_ spoilers but then I read a bit about Andrew Scott's character this weekend. And M(allory) as well... *nervous laughter*~~. 
> 
> But regardless, this chapter is what I've been working towards for the past five stories in the Traceability Series. Finally! They've reached this milestone! The fact that I can call it a milestone even though they haven't decided anything yet tells you how incredibly slow burn this series is :'D. But I'm just happy that they're over the biggest hurdle. 
> 
> The last chapter will be up by the international release of _Spectre_ ♥.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They manage to keep up the semblance of normality all the way up to just before the actual mission itself, which in hindsight is uncharacteristically patient of Bond.
> 
> It’s right then, as Q’s attention is split between several processes, that Bond says, with neither lead in or fanfare, “Q. I meant everything I said that night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy international release day for _Spectre_! ~~(It's still the 6th in some places of the world, right?)~~
> 
> A series of RL things nearly derailed this chapter, and when I did find time to write this fic really, really didn't want to end. But somehow or other, we (writer and characters and all) made it \o/.

“I get the distinct sense that you’re rather annoyed with me.”

“Now why would you think that?” Q lets the smile curl around his lips, the one that his underlings have learned to interpret as Q at his most unpredictable, and hence his most dangerous. “You own most of the city’s surveillance, so there are precious few places I can claim as truly neutral ground. And as you well know, I like London’s underground system.” 

There’s a short pause, and then C says, “May I?”

Q lets out a quiet breath, and finally meets her eyes. “Please. The coffee is for you.”

The station is a cacophony of impressions that could easily overwhelm the senses. The tinty lights cast odd, flickering shadows, washing out C’s complexion. There’s plenty of background noise to drown out their conversation, the hiss-squeal of trains on the tracks, the harshness of voices and footfalls and movement echoing through the station, and they are far enough underground that most passers-by will think of little of it when they find absolutely no signals on their phone when they venture to close to where Q and C are situated.

The surface of the bench Q claimed is probably questionable, but C gamely lifts the takeaway coffee cup and claims the space next to him. 

“Ever the consummate gentleman,” she says, taking a sip, and then lifts one eyebrow. “But perhaps a vindictive one.”

Q sighs. “Sometimes, a drink is just a drink. I didn’t pick this station because the café serves horrible coffee.”

But he might have forgone the sugar and milk on purpose, and took out a nice Darjeeling from his favourite café for himself before making his way here.

“I’m impressed you managed to contain yourself. Was it out of respect to me, or does your agency really have that much of a hold on you?”

How like C to immediately claim control of the situation by taking the offensive.

“You manipulated me,” Q says calmly and not at all accusatory. It’s useless getting riled up by what he logically knows is a deliberate attempt to throw him off-guard, and after the emotional upheaval of the past few days it’s surprisingly easy to maintain a detached outlook of the whole situation. “I should have expected that.”

“We needed a distraction, and Q Branch is more than capable of handling Jacobs. As you showed.”

“Because your team isn’t able to?” Q takes a deliberate sip of his tea. “It’s nice to see where my team and I stand on the scale of competency.”

“I don’t order the missions; I simply have to clean up after them, as we support personnel do.” There’s a sharp edge to C’s voice. “I chose to outsource some of that work to you. We’ll do the utmost for our own agencies. You know that.”

“Yes.” Q would sound much more bitter if he isn’t just mostly tired. He’d spent the sharpest edges of his emotions during that confrontation with Bond at his flat; after the peace of sleep and the space granted by Bond’s continued absence, both in person and as a shadow trailing Q around London, it’s like his body just couldn’t sustain the sheer strength of frustration-worry-determination that had fuelled him the past several weeks, through the threat of Jacobs and Bond’s disappearance. It’s a state of mind, Q suspects, that field agents constantly achieve and remain at. “But rival agencies or not, I thought we at least always had a common end-goal. You would have done better just asking me to take down Jacobs, rather than playing games.”

This time, when C looks at him, her eyes are composed. “You’ve been with Q Branch for a long time, but as Quartermaster, it hasn’t been very long at all, has it.”

Never mind, forget about detachment – there is one thing that is guaranteed to rile up Q like nothing else, and that’s any challenge to his credentials and his proficiency at carrying out his duty.

“It’s amazing how quickly you learn while on the job,” Q says. “Experience is one thing, but so is learning from your mistakes, and I’ll admit it – I’ve made plenty. Don’t test me.”

He knows what he looks like: floppy haired and bespectacled, lanky and pale skinned from constantly being indoors. He’s the youngest division leader by far in any of the sister agencies and only just a few years older than many of the trainees, but age and physicality mean nothing in cyberspace, and there Q is entirely capable of burning everything to ash and salting the earth after.

Just because he hasn’t done it in a long while doesn’t mean he’s forgotten how to. Q might have destroyed many of those programs but the codes exist in his head, and the only thing holding him back is his own principles.

The Security Service wanted him, and when they didn’t get him they were happy enough that the Secret Service claimed him, kept him out of the playing sphere. Sometimes Q wonders if they remember that the years-old ultimatum only worked because he chose to limit himself, that if Q had really wanted to run he’d disappear into the ether, leaving the United Kingdom entirely to set up operations elsewhere, for whoever provided him the greatest challenges.

Now, however, he has one great thing in common with the Double-Os. They are loyal to their country and Q – Q is fiercely protective, and he’ll fight viciously for his division and for his agents. 

If they didn’t want him to, they never should have given him the title.

“I want Jacobs. You will give this to me.”

C watches him, her hand curled gracefully around the coffee cup like it’s fine china instead of Styrofoam and plastic and it rankles, just a little, how she manages such serenity even amidst adversity. “Just like that.”

“We both know whose side came up on top of this entire debacle. You owe me. I don’t care how you do it, but you make sure that my people receive custody of Jacobs, or else we can do this through more—cutthroat means.” Q looks her dead in the eyes. “I’m not asking, C. Telling you is simply a courtesy.”

“And it’s kind of you to let me know,” she says without missing a beat. “You can have him. You know what we’d do to him if he falls under our custody.”

“A triple-crosser.” Q shakes his head. “Someone on your side made mistakes.”

“And they have been dealt with.” She pops the lid of her coffee cup, her gloved fingers elegant on the cheap plastic, and takes dainty sips, the rising steam wreathing around her face. “I did not start out to deceive you, Q,” she says from under that scant cover, her voice pitched low for his ears only. “Your rise to prominence in MI6’s ranks has spooked certain individuals. Even I must take my orders when they come from above.”

Q pauses, his own takeaway cup of tea hovering halfway towards his mouth. He meets C’s eyes and makes himself to mimic her actions; the Darjeeling is an unintended perfect choice, light and floral and soothing on his senses, and occupying his hands means Q doesn’t reach for his phone or any of the other devices on his person and react in a way that’s more reminiscent of his agents.

He’s the Quartermaster. He can’t oversee an entire division or corral his agents into some form of self-restraint if he gives in to his impulses all the time.

And apparently, some in the ranks above will look for any opportunity to undermine him. M might have intended for the XX program mission to be a test for Bond, but somewhere along the line it became one for Q as well. Even without his current level of access Q could have all the government’s secrets and then some, and leave little trace for anyone to know what he has done. The terms of his recruitment had been clear – he is to work on the government’s terms, or not at all.

He’s not disappointed when he finishes his tea; setting the cup down is his version of placing a weapon on the table – simultaneously a threat and a disarmament. “I didn’t look into MI5’s core activities. Not once.”

“That’s rather the point. Jacobs was the perfect bait – he’s a threat and his modus operandi falls neatly into your greatest area of expertise. They wanted to know how far they could push you before you decided the rules didn’t matter anymore.” C sets her own cup down on the bench as well, almost perfectly in line with Q’s. It makes a little hollow sound; she’d finished the coffee. “I handed you his file as an official request, after all. You could have gone all the way, and argued that I gave you the leeway to do so.”

Q thinks on his response, but only for a moment. There’s following the rules because it’s the most efficient way of getting things done – path of least resistance and all, and keeping his job had been a huge incentive – and then there’s letting someone else from outside his agency dictate his actions. Frankly, the second is unacceptable, especially now that he has the title and all the responsibility that goes with it, and so much more at stake than just himself.

“I’ll be sure to be very discreet about it in the future, then,” he says, “to save us both the trouble. I’ll get all the information that I need with half the effort, and you won’t even realize that anything’s out of the ordinary.”

Surprisingly, C merely laughs in response.

“I know you’re sincere when you start threatening me, even if you’re civil about it,” she says. “You used to be quite impulsive, to both brilliant and occasionally devastating effect. A consequence of your youth, perhaps; nevertheless, it was refreshing. But this version of you, tempered and ruthless, I think I’ll like very much.”

Q just studies her for a few moments, C of MI5, possibly the one person in the world who truly understands what it’s like to be in his position. He had in hindsight modelled some of the ways of handling his team after her methods. He had never met his predecessor, the former Q having retired some time before Q joined the team, and Riley refusing for years to take Q Branch’s command title, leaving C the closest person he has to a mentor. Q respects her and over time had come to enjoy meeting with her, because never once in their association had C ever underestimated him.

Oddly enough, they might even be friends – as much as they can be working for covert and horribly manipulative agencies as they do. Q likes challenges, which means C does too, and next time, Q’s going to hit back just as hard, if not more.

“As I said, I learn from my mistakes,” Q says, and does not elaborate. “That’s all I wanted to discuss today.”

C gives a quiet hum of agreement. “Considerate of you, to keep this to a coffee break. I still have plenty of paperwork to file and missions to rescue.”

“And agents to resettle?” Q says noncommittally.

“That, I’m afraid, is a little beyond my job scope.” She picks up her coffee cup. “You know, your agent did not care at all for me. He wasn’t uncooperative, but there was no rapport. He was only there, he made it quite clear, because he was ordered to.”

“He’s not fond of you,” Q agrees, not bothering to be diplomatic about it, although there’s a part of him that makes a mental note to go badger Bond over making support staff’s lives miserable, the exasperation almost comfortably familiar at this point. 

“Interestingly enough, I seem to recall that Double-Os never let rules bind them. If he really wanted to contact you, you would be skilled enough to catch it, even behind my firewalls, and you would be able to hide all traces that he had done so. He wasn’t at all pleased when he learned that I had passed Jacobs’s file to you.” There’s an amused lilt to C’s voice. “You seem to have claimed a Double-O for your own, my friend. Whatever will you do with him now that you have him so docilely on a leash?”

Q’s smile is brittle. “Please watch your language.”

C lifts a hand, slides gloved fingers carefully across Q’s brow, brushing unruly curls to one side. Q goes very still, blinking slowly as if his mind is stalling, trying to process her actions. For someone so seemingly untouchable, Q’s been in close proximity with an awful lot of people lately.

“I will if you watch yourself,” she says, the Cheshire smile back on her lips as if she knows – and enjoys – how off-kilter Q is. But her eyes are dead serious when she lifts a hand to her mouth, graceful, to obscure the movement of her lips. “There are rumours, after all, on how fond and protective you are over your agents, especially the Double-Os. I would keep your attachment to your agent close to heart, Quartermaster. Or be prepared to fight for it.”

She rises smoothly to her feet before Q can do something Bond-esque and grab for her arm in reflex – she’d probably pepper-spray him, always one to favour the biological over electrical.

“Really,” he says, more a statement on her method of delivery than of the content itself, and he should be glad that the word comes out flat rather than plaintive.

The neutral expression and the glint of amusement in C’s eyes looks so natural that it’s barely a mask, and Q doesn’t get a single hint about how many battles she might have fought, for her team and against impossible orders. “I’ll clear things at the top on my side,” she says. “Do collect Jacobs as soon as possible. I can only hold off my own department for so long.”

Q doesn’t rise to see her on her way. “I’ll wait for your go-ahead, Commissary. I wouldn’t want to overstep any boundaries, after all.”

“If you’d prefer,” she says, and steps away from the bench, not disappearing effortlessly into the crowd but gliding through it, commuters moving almost unconsciously out of her path. Q tracks her by the silver hair sticks in her hair, still exquisite in the terrible lighting of the station, and stands to leave only when he hears his train arrive with a buffet of displaced air and a shrill hiss of metal against metal.

\---

This time, Q knows exactly when Bond walks into the main observation lab, because it’s like something out of a wildlife documentary – his entire team goes still, alert, eyes trained on the predator suddenly in their midst.

A moment later, they all turn back to their work in a sudden rush of noise, which is hardly subtle at all.

Q smothers the urge to sigh, and sits back in his chair.

Bond is dressed impeccably as ever in a suit, and just because Q has rarely seen him in anything else while at headquarters doesn’t mean Q can’t read the signs. This is not a social call of a bored agent or one that is here to turn Q’s neatly organized world upside down once again; this is a Double-O on a mission, and Bond strides over to Q’s workstation without any indication that he’d noticed anything amiss or that there exists at least half a dozen issues left unsettled between them.

Compartmentalization is an amazing coping mechanism.

“007,” Q says, because the pointed way his team is _not_ staring at Bond – or at Q, for that matter – is starting to get a little awkward.

“Q,” Bond returns. “The mission summary should come through in a few minutes, if it hasn’t done so already.”

Through some stroke of serendipity, Q’s phone goes off then, his screen displaying the alert at the same time. It’s one with the highest level of encryption, and Q enters in his cipher key curiously; normally he gets these notices before the agent in question shows up on his doorstep.

It’s a directive for a Double-O mission, but Q doesn’t expect to see his own title there next to Bond’s 007 designation.

“Oh,” Q says. “This is a first.”

Bond makes a short gesture for Q to read on, and Q glances at Bond before his eyes flick down to read the mission order.

He’d expected it, of course. C is nothing but efficient, and the order to apprehend Jacobs would go to Bond by default. Q wonders who decided that he is to be directly involved with this mission, however, whether C pushed for it or if M just wants to torment them a little longer. Double-Os aren’t assigned to any particular handler, from Q Branch or otherwise – on paper the factors include availability, specialities involved and clearance levels, but really, most of the time the work falls to Q or Tanner or on the odd occasion Riley simply because the Double-Os are picky and incomprehensible and become thoroughly intractable when they don’t like whoever it is that’s on the other side of the line.

Having Q’s name officially on the directive means the mission can’t be handled by anyone else, unless Q wants to go make a case for it with M directly.

“When?” Q asks, because the order is quite barebones, containing even less information than Q is used to seeing for Double-Os.

“At your convenience. M is still negotiating terms, so as long as we fulfil the mission objective, the particulars of how it’s carried out are entirely up to us.”

“And here I thought M didn’t want me involved,” Q says lightly, and he’s not quite sure himself if he means the Jacobs case or – well, involved with Bond.

“You are MI6’s resident expert in this particular field.” There’s barely a flicker in Bond’s voice. “I suppose M prioritizes a complete neutralization rather than risk another security breach.” And then the barest change in inflections makes his words go amused. “Not that your communications team wouldn’t perform admirably.” 

Q blinks, and focuses on the room at large. The majority of his staff carries on with their work or conversations and the lab never dies below a constant hum of voices and whirling systems and white noise, giving his and Bond’s conversation the illusion of privacy. On the other hand, Omen has been hovering at the printer near them for quite some time and Ricco should be deep in the guts of a mainframe but he’s at his workstation cleaning a pair of needle-nosed pliers instead, the rest of his tools – plus an extra taser – arranged neatly around him. Corrine has forgone subtlety completely and just stares at the back of Bond’s head. Q wonders what she’s coding; her hands haven’t paused over her keyboard, but her eyes don’t ever flick back to her screen.

Q Branch won’t sabotage any of their agents, much less a Double-O, but had Bond been someone of less importance – or if Q had given any indication that his and Bond’s professional relationship is anything but intact – it’s quite obvious that they would absolutely destroy him.

“Out,” Q orders Bond, even as he begins reassigning his tasks, working down the list quickly but systematically to make sure everything is covered in his absence. He narrows his eyes when Bond doesn’t move, and stacks his earpiece and phone atop a tablet before dropping them neatly into Bond’s hands, meeting his eyes pointedly. “This is still supposed to be a classified mission of the highest level, isn’t it? I’ll direct you myself from my office.”

Obediently, Bond turns on his heels and goes, and Q has to shake his head to physically clear his mind because it’s _suspiciously_ docile of Bond but if he’d resisted then Q would then think Bond was trying to provoke him on purpose, and Q has always had a healthy dose of paranoia from his days as a hacker and even more so after he entered the Secret Service, but if he isn’t careful this kind of thinking will drive him to utter distraction.

“Comms team,” Q says instead, and immediately all eyes in the room are on him. He doesn’t need to explain himself but he owes them something for their unwavering loyalty, and it’s in everyone’s best interest if he heads off any complications before it happens. He scans the lab, meeting all their eyes briefly but directly. “It’s fine. But pick your battles wisely.”

There’s a quiet murmur at that, but Q just nods at them and shuts down his systems. He tries his best not to order them outright; giving them general guidelines and trusting them to make do without doing anything terribly unethical or illegal works so much better instead, and they invariably err on the side of caution most of the time. “Omen, the team is yours for the shift.”

“Take care, sir,” Omen says. The rest of the team echoes him in various tones, some more appeased than others, but none of them look like they’re about to follow him out or maybe put a wiretap on him and Q will take what he can get for now. He picks up a container of ginger nuts, makes yet another mental note about a separate pantry, and steps out of the main observation lab.

Bond is waiting for him just around the corner, and falls into step behind him as Q sets off on the shortest route to his office.

It’s very quiet in the corridors. Q’s feet keep wanting to drag, to let Bond catch up with him. But it’s a conscious choice on Bond’s part, to trail behind Q, and so Q forces himself to walk at his normal pace.

Just before the silence becomes unbearable, Bond speaks up. “Why did you push for us to take custody of Jacobs?”

“Why do you think that I had anything to do with this?” Q returns. He really wishes Bond would get over his habit of shadowing him. It should be easier to ignore Bond like this, but Q hates the feeling of being watched when he can’t stare down the offender in turn, and he can feel Bond’s gaze on his back like a palpable touch.

“M and the Security Service didn’t move for days on this situation, and suddenly they’re heading the other extreme by ordering me to detain Jacobs. And for MI5 to give up their claim – that has your fingerprints all over it.”

“Maybe I just didn’t want to give MI5 the satisfaction of claiming the credit on this operation. Goodness knows we did all the work.”

Bond gives a short laugh, low and pointed. “You might feel tempted by it, but we both know that one of us actually bothers to think things through before acting, and that person isn’t me.” 

Startled, Q glances over his shoulder. Bond’s expression is neutral, calm and in control. He’s still holding onto all of Q’s devices and doesn’t seem to have tampered with any of them, and instead of taking them back Q just tightens his grip around the plastic container of biscuits.

“I want us to handle Jacobs because I gave him the Chimera’s source code. I would be the most effectual at containing the program if Jacobs deploys it in any way, and I’m the only person I trust to make sure it’s entirely dismantled and destroyed, not squirreled away to be modified and repurposed at some later date when the urgency of the situation has passed.”

He meets Bond’s eyes squarely, and doesn’t add that it’s for Bond’s benefit as well – the Double-Os hate not personally tying up loose ends on their missions, and for Bond it must be doubly so, with the private stake he has on Jacobs’s case.

Bond watches him for a long moment, and then makes an unprecedented offer. “Would you like to come with me?”

Q stares at him.

“When I collect Jacobs,” Bond clarifies.

“You are notorious for how much you hate working with partners in the field. Before Moneypenny, you’d cycled through dozens of field agents; it was almost enough to make the Intelligence branch leaders blacklist you, except they couldn’t because you’re a Double-O.”

A smile of bemusement flashes across Bond’s face, but his eyes are serious. “And occasionally, I make exceptions. Having you on hand to disable all of Jacobs’s systems would be the most effective course.”

Q bites on his tongue; the tiny nip of pain is enough to halt his instinctive response, which is to argue back, and make him actually consider Bond’s words. He can’t deny that there’s a part of him that wants to see this through, to look Jacobs in the eye and destroy all traces of the Chimera there and then, together with whatever destructive programs Jacobs has created himself.

But that’s the prideful part of him speaking – on the other side of the equation is the lingering fear whenever Q remembers the uncompromising weight of the gun pressed against his stomach, and the awareness that no matter how much they might pretend otherwise, he and Bond are not quite their normal selves. Having Q present just means Bond has another factor he needs to consider and protect, and Q would likely be a distraction any other time, but especially so now.

Q had posed two options that night because the third one – continuing as they always have, as if neither of them had spoken up – was never viable. They’ll manage a very good facsimile of it, but Q knows honesty and unreserved commitment, either professionally or otherwise, is what makes his and Bond’s odd partnership work; anything else and Q would lose any influence he ever had over the man. He would have to fall back on his authority as the Quartermaster, and authority alone has never meant much to the Double-Os.

And Q has never been one to take the middle path.

Q reaches for his devices in Bond’s hand – and there’s the flicker in Bond’s expression when Q ends up too close, the slight jerkiness of his movements when he relinquishes the devices – and they should be tiny, tiny inconsequential signs, but they’re there, and they’re proof that something has changed. Q has been jumpy this entire short walk and conversation, and he pushes the feeling away even as he exchanges the biscuit container for his tablet and phone and ear piece, hooking the last over his ear immediately.

“I need some time to set up my systems if we’re going to fully neutralize Jacobs. Go find Riley in the Inventories. I’ll send him a list of what you’ll require, beyond the Walther you’re undoubtedly already carrying.” 

Bond just looks at him.

Belatedly, Q realizes that he hadn’t actually responded to Bond’s offer. It’s becoming a habit, getting lost in the thoughts in his head and leaving a normally stoic and reserved agent hanging.

“I think I’ll do much better in my usual position, guiding you from afar. I can break through his systems well enough from here, and I’ll have the additional power, capacity and security if I work from my office.” Q cuts himself off before he can ramble on uncontrollably, and finally settles for a somewhat awkward, “But thank you.”

Bond doesn’t react to that, just rattles the biscuit container in a silent question.

Q lets out a quiet laugh, almost involuntarily. “Peace offering, for when you see Riley. Tell him I took half the batch, that might placate him a little more.”

“Always safeguarding your agents,” Bond murmurs. “How should I contact you once I’ve collected my equipment?”

“I’ll call you.” Q pauses, and then says, a little tentatively, “Do you know the apartment where I met with Jacobs to exchange for the XX program files?”

“No,” Bond says shortly. “You and Riley kept that piece of information to yourselves quite well. And before you bother me about being reckless, 004 agreed that ambushing Jacobs would be the simplest solution.”

Q has a sudden vision of 004 infiltrating Jacobs’s apartment through disguise or flirtation or possibly with a discreet localized explosive or two before Bond busts in with guns blazing, and the thought must be playing out on his expression because Bond adds, “She did point out that you wouldn’t be pleased with either of us. So obscuration and protection was what we settled on.”

For his own sanity, Q doesn’t point out that MI5 would probably detain all of them for carrying out an unauthorized attack in the heart of London, much less on such a critical target, and just tucks his tablet in the crook of one elbow to type out the address on his phone. Bond pulls out his phone almost immediately after Q sends the message.

“Enjoy scouting the place out,” Q says to Bond’s raised eyebrow. “Jacobs hides his trail well, but he’s been agitated of late – I suspect the Home Office is making it much more difficult for him to leave the country now. He should be back at the apartment tonight. And I will contact you later.”

Bond nods, and slips past him to make for the Inventories. Q watches his retreating figure, because lingering discomfort aside – that went well.

Their duties always come first, and with that at the forefront everything else falls in place. It’s surprisingly reassuring to have that bedrock foundation, and Q turns his mind towards the mission. Double-Os don’t require much direction, and Q has been monitoring Jacobs since he decrypted the first of the XX program files. He’ll have a plan of attack in place by the time Bond gets out of Inventories.

\---

They manage to keep up the semblance of normality all the way up to just before the actual mission itself, which in hindsight is uncharacteristically patient of Bond.

Bond is barely a shadow at the edge of one of the CCTV cameras located across the street from the luxury apartment, waiting as Q reroutes or loops back all the security cameras. That he’s even in camera view at all is a constant nagging thought at the corner of Q’s mind – with any other handler, Bond would be entirely missing, possibly already within the building itself, and Q finds himself speeding up – the sooner he clears the way, the less likely Bond will try to strike out on his own. He’ll unlock the front gate for Bond in a moment, but the difficulty is in getting up and into the penthouse suite without tipping Jacobs off. The faraday cage means that Bond will be disappearing into a blackout zone; Q plans to focus on watching Jacobs’s activities online, just in case anything is triggered over the course of the attack.

It’s right then, as Q’s attention is split between several processes, that Bond says, with neither lead in or fanfare, “Q. I meant everything I said that night.”

It doesn't even occur to Q to ask which part of that night - which particular night is obvious enough - Bond is referring to; his first reaction is to growl, because – _timing_. As it is, Q doesn’t manage to keep the edge out of his voice.

“I hope you’re not saying that because you think this might be your last chance to do so.”

“No.”

Q waits fifteen seconds for the rest of it, if only because it takes him that long to finish off the modifications to the system’s code. “The longer you leave that thought hanging, 007, the more likely I am to think of the worst.”

Bond makes a low noise, a wordless rumble of discontent; he doesn’t quite mean for Q to hear but he’s wearing one of Q’s comms devices and with Bond right here in London Q doesn’t have to bounce the signal off a dozen towers and satellites, so the sound comes through with stark clarity. “Did you have such fatalistic thoughts when you sent that last charming message of yours? That was quite something, after a dozen blank texts.”

The jolt of guilt is a surprise, and Q glances away from his screens, biting down the instinct to apologize. If they’re truly keeping count, then Bond owes him weeks’ worth of remorse for how many high-blood pressure inducing situations he’s put Q through.

“I was more than a little frustrated with you at that point in time. And I don’t have much experience at confronting a target in the field.”

“Yes,” Bond agrees. “But I do.” There’s a pause, and then he adds, “So no. I intend to take Jacobs down swiftly and thoroughly, and remain very much alive at the end of it.”

“I'm glad to hear that. But please don’t shoot him in the head,” Q says. “I need him alive in case he has other destructive programs up his sleeve.”

“This, coming from the man who developed some of the world's most sophisticated security protocols and created a software program so valuable that a triple-crossing agent exchanged top secret governmental files for it.”

“Thank you for your confidence in my skills, but I rather err on the side of caution and have him around to question, as a backup. Urgency takes precedence in these situations, and while I’m likely able to crack through just about anything eventually, it does take time.”

“I will try not to maul him too much.”

It occurs to Q, as he frowns at the uncharacteristic hardness lurking beneath Bond’s flippant tone, that Bond might actually mean what he’s saying this time, rather than saying so just to annoy Q.

“I’m quite all right, 007,” Q says, and the damnable thing about the perfectly calibrated comms line is that he knows Bond can hear the way Q’s voice has gone a little softer, less of the quartermaster and handler and more of just Q himself. “And you were fine with the idea of taking me with you, earlier.”

“And like any trained agent worth the title, I would have secured Jacobs before allowing a support staff to enter the premises. You would be safe enough. I told you,” Bond’s tone doesn’t change at all, as though he’s simply stating yet another fact. “I meant what I said that night.”

This is ridiculous. How is it that they can only be this honest when one or the other is asleep or missing, or spoken in between the spaces of a mission through the filter of technology? Q stares out into the darkness of his office, beyond the glow of his screens and the circle of light from his desk lamp, his hands curled into loose fists atop his keyboard. His throat feels tight, an aching fission of want lodged in the vicinity of his heart.

“I know,” Q finally says. “Just come back safely, please.”

The clock is ticking and the line is perfectly quiet. Bond doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t move either; just waits patiently until Q wrests hold of his emotions and is able to restrict his thoughts solely to the mission details, professionalism pulled over his shoulders like a well-worn cloak.

\---

The main observation lab is on half-lights this late into the night, mostly bereft of Q Branch personnel. Most of the staff on duty at this time are working on specialized projects and prefer other spaces; normally Q takes himself to his office, but after spending several hours there, just sitting in a different location – even without company – feels like a breath of fresh air, the possibility of connection a tantalizing prospect.

Riley finds him at his workstation, his briefcase in one hand and an Inventories garment bag in the other. He fishes out an empty plastic container from the former.

“Did you actually eat any of the ginger nuts?”

“Yes,” Q says truthfully, because two biscuits count.

Riley eyes him like he can read the thoughts from Q’s head, and adds the container to the stack of cleaned out tins, reusable resealable bags and thermos flasks. At least the team clears out the perishables and seals up the rest properly before the end of the day; Q works well enough amongst clutter, but he draws the line at messes that attract critters.

“The Jacobs case went well, I presume,” Riley says, looking pointedly at the single lit monitor at Q’s workstation; with any other case, Q would take advantage of the lab’s facilities and use the larger public screens.

“Yes,” Q says. “Apprehended and with all his systems destroyed, as thoroughly as I can manage. I’m tracking some of his online aliases, just in case he has any dangerous tricks hidden away.”

Riley nods. “I saw your new assignments for the Comms team. We can draft a plan, have monitors in place for the next few weeks.”

“I’ll leave it to you to drive that. I’ll check in and be available for consultation, of course, but I think I need some distance from this case.” Q nods towards the garment bag, since his hands are busy fiddling with a spare cable tie – it’s better than constantly checking his phone. “Are you testing different fabrics again?”

“Actually, this is for you.”

Q drops the cable tie to take hold of the garment bag, and unzips it to find a familiar looking coat. He stares down at his pea coat for a long moment, surprise holding him in place.

“The agent was quite thorough in scouring the trackers, and submitted the coat back to the Inventories. It took a while for me to notice it, since the agent couldn’t classify it under any active mission.”

Smoothing a hand down the pea coat’s lapel, Q says, “I thought there was little chance of getting this back.”

“Well,” Riley says with a faint smile, “we wouldn’t be very good at our jobs if we adhered to statistical probabilities. Are you staying much longer?”

Q meets his eyes squarely. “Just a while more, yes. I have some unfinished business to attend to.”

He doesn’t mention that he’s waiting on Bond, for the Double-O to finish up with whatever he – and M, probably – have done with Jacobs. For once, Q is happier staying out of it; taking out all of Jacobs’s files and technology and neutralizing his programs was enough to give him a sense of closure, of facing down Jacobs and finishing the mission.

If there is now a bullet in Jacobs’s head, Q doesn’t want to know.

The silence goes on for a moment too long, and Q glances at Riley, and wonders if the intent look in his gaze is knowing or simply appraising.

“Very well,” is all Riley says, and he hefts his briefcase. “I’m leaving for today. Don’t spend too long with your thoughts, or you’ll get mired in them.”

Q smiles, because that’s exactly what he’s focusing all of his attention on, the lit monitor more a token gesture than anything else, and if Bond takes longer to settle Jacobs, then that just means Q has that much more time to think things through.

“Thank you for the coat, Riley,” he says.

The lab feels much smaller once Riley leaves, the quiet slipping into empty spaces. Q strokes at the wool of his regained pea coat, and contemplates consequences.

The thing is, Bond is the reckless one. It isn’t that he has no consideration for consequences; it’s that he looks at consequences and decides that either they don’t matter, or that he’ll do everything in his power to circumvent them when they turn out unfavourably.

Q is reckless too, but he’s considerably more systematic about it. It’s why he makes for such a good quartermaster.

He could walk away. Have Riley handle Bond for the time being, and Q will still oversee everything, of course; he’d do the same for any of the Double-Os. Neither of them might be happy in the short term, but Bond would accept his decision and he would be alive. They would end up with something like Bond’s association with M, respectful and entirely focused on the professional; the detachment would allow Q to see the overarching picture with greater clarity and make decisions based more on probabilities and reason than emotion. And Bond would be as safe as Q can manage because Q will never accept anything less.

He would still be one of Q’s Double-Os, and Q is very protective, after all.

The other side of the coin is full commitment. And there are plenty of complications with that choice. For one, the relationship must last, because if things are strained now Q can’t imagine what it would be like if he and Bond had a falling out significant enough to severe their association. They’re not in the same chain of command, but they work in close enough proximity even when Q isn’t acting as Bond’s handler that it would be near impossible for them to work together effectively or professionally if the relationship did end. Q wishes he could say he’ll be able to do otherwise, but he’s quite self-aware; he wouldn’t be able to keep his emotions out of it.

Q thinks of Tanner’s sole criterion – _as long as it isn’t destructive_ – and considers Bond’s track record, as well as his own.

Stroking the familiar wool of his pea coat, Q slips off his chair to pull it on. The coat really is in remarkable condition, and if Riley’s chosen agent had needed to cut it apart to remove the trackers, Q doesn’t see any evidence of it. It is in these tiny miracles, Q thinks as he tugs the lapels straight, forgoing the buttons for now, that personnel in his position finds faith. There is no room for it elsewhere; the support divisions like Q Branch must succeed in their duties, because failure often means the death of an agent.

Still, a little bit of intangible hope is absolutely necessary, to better make immutable physics and scientific law and calculated probability converge in success.

His phone goes off then, a quiet chime signalling Bond’s entry back into headquarters, and Q lifts his head, watching the observation lab doors.

Bond appears soon enough, looking no worse for apprehending Jacobs, just spotting a shallow scrape across one cheek where Jacobs had put up quite a fight, even when disarmed. There’s a faint whiff of antiseptic, although that’s likely due to the incapacitating chemicals Bond used on Jacobs rather than because he’d visited Medical on his way back.

“Is it done?” Q says.

“Yes.” Bond doesn’t elaborate, just sets the equipment kit on the central workbench. “I’ve debriefed with M; he’s still at Whitehall. It's done." 

The silence falls heavily between them. Q doesn't ask Bond why he's here; they didn't discuss it, but Q had chosen to wait at the main observation lab, one of the places Bond would check for him, just like Q knew Bond would show up regardless of how long it takes to debrief with M. The Jacobs case is over and dealt with, and there is but one last loose end to tie up. 

Q stands, and something in his expression must tip Bond off, because his eyes widen momentarily, as if startled that Q would want to conclude things here, in the heart of MI6 headquarters, in a room that is set up entirely for surveillance. Q flashes a quick smile even if his hands are slightly clammy, fingers curling and uncurling restlessly, because he has no intention to treat Bond like a hidden program to be secreted away in the background, only accessible when convenient.

Bond doesn’t betray any other reaction, and Q closes the distance between them. It’s always there, imperceptibly so, a foot of space on a bench or when standing side by side, or in a car with the gearbox between them. They’ve never gone for casual touches, not in sparring where each blow is calculated to disable and very much calculated not to overly injure, and it is calculated now, Q deliberately stepping into the bubble of space that surrounds the Double-Os, the position at Bond’s side that he now claims as his.

It takes a long moment, the hesitation speaking volumes, for Bond to slide his arm across Q’s back, hand settling on his opposite hip under the thick fabric of the pea coat, unassuming but present. It’s a line of warmth, almost unbearably intimate, as is the steady gaze Q can feel on the side of his head. If he turns, it will be the closest they’ve ever regarded each other.

Q has only felt this just once before, the sense of inevitability, of making a choice he cannot go back from.

It is, somehow, liberating.

“The next time you disappear—” and this close, Q can feel Bond react to that, a very subtle tensing “—you tell me. I won’t interfere, I can live without the details, but you tell me that you’re alive, and you tell me if and especially when you need help. That’s all.”

“That’s all.” The slightest inflection in Bond’s voice makes it a question.

Q turns his head to face Bond, and – he’s never been shy about confronting Bond, but looking at him like this, eye to eye, scant inches between them, is something else altogether. “You did already promise me that you’ll try harder, so.”

Bond’s fingers curl unerringly around Q’s wrist, gently pulling away the coat and his shirt sleeves, and lifts Q’s hand to press a kiss to the once-bruised, now-mottled skin.

“Don’t point a gun at your head again,” Bond murmurs, his lips brushing against Q’s wrist with each word, and Q has to breathe out sharply, because it’s not _don’t confront insidious hacker intelligence officers_ or _don’t put yourself in danger_ , it’s just _don’t try to hurt yourself, even if it’s to prove a point_.

This is not the smoke of seduction, subtle and ethereal, and it’s not the fiery passion of a quick liaison. This is slow and inexorable as the tide, vast and silently consuming as the ocean, and if Q is not careful, it would be so easy for the currents to drag him under, and drown him in those hidden depths.

Beyond that, he’ll have battles to fight around every corner, not least against M and possibly against every single rumour-mongering individual in MI6, but Q already knows he and Bond make a formidable team. And against Bond himself—

Q knows he can hold his own.

“I think I can safely say that won't happen again,” Q says, and lets Bond tug him closer against his side. “Your topcoat is still hanging in the front closet of my flat.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“No,” Q says. “It’s a promise. You do already have the passcodes to my security system.”

There’s a pause.

“Then,” Bond murmurs, and Q can feel the slow smile, warm breath feathering over the sensitive skin of Q’s wrist, where Bond must be able to feel Q’s pulse fluttering just underneath, “I will hold you to it.”

Q closes his eyes, and turns into Bond’s embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I must thank all of you who have read this story, and especially those who left kudos and comments (I love reading people's reactions, I do cackle in glee sometimes). It's my first time posting a WIP and it's quite a different experience from finishing a story and then posting it. Your encouragement meant a lot when I was struggling with finicky uncooperative characters and panicking over the timeline - thank you so much!
> 
> Is this the end of the _Traceability Series_? I'm not entirely sure - this particular story derailed my original plan for the series because it's so long and ended up encompassing much more than I originally drafted. I think Q and Bond end up at a good place here. But their relationship could (and necessarily must) go further. There's also _Spectre_ to consider, so I'll leave this series for now and see what plot bunnies come scratching at my door. 
> 
> In the meantime, I will be playing around and writing more of my [Harry Potter!AU fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4977079), and I'm also taking part in the [00Q Reverse Bang](http://00qreversebang.tumblr.com/) (with postings happening in January) so I will definitely still be writing plenty of 00Q. I'm also watching _Spectre_ later today, so if anyone wants to fan-squee/scream/ramble about the movie/anything 00Q in general, feel free to [drop me a message](http://blackidyll.tumblr.com/ask) :D. 
> 
> ♥!


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